I'll Tell You When To Stop
by Elpin
Summary: Bond needs Q to keep doing his job so he can do his, then things get complicated. 00Q, because we all know it was gonna happen!
1. Chapter 1

Title: I'll Tell You When To Stop

Author: Elpin

Fandom: James Bond, post-Skyfall

Pairing: 007/Q

Summary: Bond needs Q to do his job so he can do his better, but then things get complicated.

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Warnings: None

Tags: First time, slutty!Bond, not-taking-your-bullshit!Q, suspence, romance

-:-

He was supposed to be charming the father, securing his trust and become his new business partner. An easy task, usually, and by the end of the week he should be granted access enough for Q to hack himself the rest of the way.

The problem was the son. He seemed to be the far easier option - well, that depended on your definition of "easy" of course. For now, Bond kept his attention and charm on the father, CEO, while at the same time returning the glances thrown his way. The son - Raul, wasn't it? - looked the type to like it weird, but too shy to ask, so he probably bought silence instead.

Q was in his ear, filling his head with tidbits of information he had already memorized from the file on what he could use to ingratiate himself. He wanted to mutter "keep your tips for when I get to a computer screen" but he was in the middle of a crowded ballroom and Daddy CEO was making some remark about how they should go fishing on his private yatch this weekend.

'Sounds perfect.'

'You fish often?'

James caught Raul's eye, which darted towards the stairs. Follow me, they said.

'On occasion, when I find the time.'

'I knew I'd like you, Mr. Davies,' Daddy CEO said. 'You have a trusting face.'

'Thank you, I look forward to us doing business together. If you'll excuse me.'

Raul was already at the top of the stairs by the time James got away. The manor was an old Italian villa with modern technology cleverly integrated everywhere. A true modern billionaire's summer home. James saw a figure dart into a room at the end of the gallerie. He took no notice of the family portraits, or the floor to ceiling mirrors between the dark marble columns. To him it was all just white noise.

The room he found was a salon, but instead of the ornate traditional furnishings he had seen so far, it was modern. Clearly, this was the son's appartment. It was almost like stepping through time.

Past the salon he found the dining room, kitchen and a study with a very large computer set-up that even Q might be envy of. If he could get two minutes alone in there.

'Are you coming?' He followed the voice to the bedroom. Raul pounced on him immediately, sucking on his lips rather painfully. He returned the embrace as best he could. It wasn't as if it was his first time.

'Bond?' he heard in his ear. 'What, exactly, do you think you're doing?' Q sounded annoyed, which made him smile for some reason. He spun around with Raul in his arms, pressing him hard against the wall.

'If your father finds out-' he said breathlessly, conveying the fear of discovery trying to suppress overwhelming desire.

'He won't,' the little shit smirked. He couldn't be more than 23, 25 at most. Still being groomed for the take-over, he thought he knew everything, and could get away with anything. He wouldn't try anything with James of course, and not just because he was going to be Daddy's new partner. James was physically much stronger. Raul might have muscles fit for a Calvin Kline advertisement, but he probably hadn't actually fought anyone. He had goons to do that, after all.

James ran his thumb over Raul's lower lip roughly, noting how the eyes widened and the tongue darted out. The easier path by far, yes.

'I am going to fuck you so damn hard you'll be feeling me tomorrow at breakfast, squirming across from your father.'

'Yes, oh, I want to see you try,' Raul moaned obscenely, taking James' thumb in his mouth and sucking.

'007, need I remind you your target is downstairs?' Q hissed in his ear.

'Do you have anything proper to drink?' James asked. 'I'm rather sick of champagne.'

'Of course,' Raul said, eager to prove he was the better man of the family.

After that it was an easy thing to slip something into Raul's drink, fuck him senseless until he passed out, and then get to the computer. Instead of a week-long trek into the family business, he had every file they needed within the hour, and he was back downstairs before anyone grew suspicious. Raul would wake up with a hangover, too embarrassed to admit anything.

Q was silent until James needed him, thankfully. James wasn't entirely sure how the young man would react to having to listen to an intimite tryst in the name of Queen and country. Usually, his handlers got used to this sort of thing within the week, and surely Q had been briefed it was likely to happen - especially with 007.

In any case, his voice was matter-of-fact by the time he was needed, so James assumed he had gotten over any virginal squimishness.

XXX

'Are you all right, Q?' James asked when he got back to HQ with his report. Q was analyzing the files, eyes scanning freakishly fast over the screens. That didn't keep James from a little teasing.

'Why wouldn't I be, 007?'

'Just checking. You did get quite the earfull. Perhaps your briefing was insufficient.'

'I was briefed on your information-gathering tactics, Bond,' Q said with a sigh of boredom. 'I was just worried you might have gotten distracted.'

'Well, you should know,' James said as he leaned against Q's desk, just to add that extra spice of annoyance when his backside shifted a few papers. 'I never get distracted. I always focus on the job at hand.'

'Yes, and I'm certain Raul appreciated it.'

'Well, by the sound of him-' They were interrupted by the loud throat-clearing cough of M, who did not look all that comfortable.

'If you two are quite done.' James noted the quirk of Q's lip, and filed it away in his mind. Perhaps the far-too-young Quatermaster wasn't as easy to rile up as previously projected.

XXX

It became a game. The objective was simple: rile him up, embarrass him, trip him up, or just generally annoy the hell out of him. Some might say that's not the sort of thing governement agents should be spending their time on while on important protecting-the-country missions, but in truth… it made him better.

James could admit that before, and for quite a while after, the last M died, he had not been on top of things. The fact that he hadn't passed the tests still stung, even though he had retaken them since. Now, however, every time he got Q in his ear, those missions felt like sailing on pure adrenaline. Even the boring ones weren't quite as tedious.

The best part was Q didn't falter, not once. It was a game James had yet to actually win, but for once that didn't bother him. Q gave as good as he got.

Then came Lee - a Chinese agent apparently on their side on a joint venture. He was James' age, maybe a couple of years younger, with impeccable taste in suits, a handsome but hardened man's face with a goatee and eyes that spoke James' language.

007 didn't acknowledge this instant cameraderie, if that was the word, and neither did Lee. That was as expected. They got the job done. Although it didn't go as smoothly as HQ would have liked.

James was running down a back alley in Chinatown, Tokyo. The big men with guns were speeding after them on scooters, the cheaters. Lee knew his way around, thankfully, so James could tune out Q in his ear, demanding to know what their status was. He ditched the GPS in his watch. He trusted Q, but in situations like this he didn't want anything that could locate him. Anything could be hacked.

Lee had done the same, and James was about to ditch his ear-piece and microphone. He spoke into it one last time.

'We're going underground for 6 hours. I'll be at the rendevous point.'

'Bond, wait,' Q shouted. 'There might be- Just a second!'

'No time.' James could hear them getting close. They needed to disappear. Avoiding an incident was a top-priority for this mission. No shootouts, nothing to get the locals involved. He chucked everything except his gun and the USB drive.

He looked up and Lee stared back.

'Ready?' the man asked. He had only the faintest of accents.

'Lead the way.'

They didn't trust each other, but that didn't mean they couldn't fuck each other. A cliché for a man like Bond, perhaps, but when your life is like a spy-novel, you take what pleasure you can get. He'd never had an Asian man before. They were of similar build, only Lee was clearly the more traditionally handsome of the pair.

But they never trusted each other, not for a moment. Which was why when Lee decided to sneak out of bed, grab his gun and go solo for the rest of the mission, James was already aiming for the back of his head before he'd even reached for his weapon.

'Don't,' James asked. They were the same, just on different sides. Or several sides, in Lee's case.

In the end, James came back alone, but he wasn't surprised - it had been Lee's choice. He couldn't let locals find the body, or get it back across to China, so he weighed it down and let it sink to the bottom of the bay.

The extraction was uneventful.

XXX

Q didn't banter with him all that much after that. He hadn't included the actual fucking in the rapport, but perhaps Q had read between the lines. If anyone could, it was Q, though James couldn't understand what difference it should make. Fucking on or off the clock, with or without the earpiece.

'New Walter,' Q listed as he went over James' equipment. 'Be sure to hand in your old one. If you lose this one M says it will be deducted from your pay.'

'The last one I lost blew up, if you remember, hardly my fault. 99% of my missions don't involve any shooting.' He let the "unfortunately" remain unsaid, but by Q's shrewd glance, it hadn't been all that silent.

'Well, you did use it on the last mission,' Q mentioned, too casually.

'Just the once,' James said. 'It was a clean death.' He checked the gun, let himself get a feel for it.

'Is that what all 00's wish for?' Q mused, sounding almost a little amused. 'A clean death?'

'I suppose.'

'For Queen and country?'

'Anything else?' James asked, gesturing to the equipment.

'No.'

James realised halfway to the lift that Q was upset on his behalf, or some such nonsense. Sometimes 007 forgot the way normal people thought about these sorts of things.

XXX

London to New York was a long flight. It had never felt longer, even though James wasn't actually on the plane. He was already there.

Q was afraid of flying.

Yet, they had shipped him out for this one. He needed to be at the terminal himself, no internet sneaking possible. James didn't understand the actual details of the program. His information-gathering tactics were a bit old-fashioned, and he preferred it that way.

He picked Q up at the airport. The man looked about three shades too green, his clothes more rumpled than ever before. James didn't mention either of these facts, and they drove silently to the hotel.

They shared a room for security reasons, so James had to listen to Q's outpouring of what could only be acid by this time. After listening to that, even James felt like a shower.

It was all a bit much, this mission. Almost too old-school despite Q's needed presence. It felt off from the get-go, and having to drag an annoying preschooler around didn't help much. Q did make an effort not to be annoying, but he seemed incapable of succeeding. James realised ten minutes into things that ihe/i was nervous, like a rookie, and it was making him irritable.

The private server was in a penthouse at the top of a very high building with outside glass lifts. The corporate party downstairs kept everyone's attention away from their goal.

Q was afraid of heights. Of course he was.

James did the heavy lifting. From his side the mission was easy: get Q to the computer, keep him there until the job is done, and they them both out safely without being noticed.

Until an alarm was tripped on their way out. Q had hacked the security system, so their cameras were useless, or rather they appeared empty wherever they were, thanks to an American partner in the basement. Security was still suspicious, however, despite dismissing the alarm as faulty, and a guard was out on the prowl.

James knew the lift would stop at the 16th floor. He knew the guard would be waiting outside to take the lift to the top floor, just to check things over. He also knew if he stopped the lift on a higher floor to get out, it would look very suspicious.

So, he did what any agent would go. He got the top hatch open and climbed on top. He reached down to help Q up.

'What the hell are you doing?' Q asked.

'Take my hand.'

'I'm not going up there!'

'We have ten floors left before those doors open.'

'No we twenty-si-FOUR floors left, then we go splat. I'd rather not!'

'Take my hand right now or I will drag you up here by your collar!' Q finally obeyed and James got the hatch closed just as the doors slid open. Q was breathing very heavily and looked ready to blow off the lift, so James slid his arms around the man's chest from behind.

'Easy, don't look down.' Q clung to his hands, pressing back into James as hard as he could. He was shaking violently and let out a gasp when the lift started moving again, going upwards at top speed. Even James could admit the sensation was unnerving, though the city was beautiful from his view.

Once the guard had walked around for a bit, he took the lift down again, and this way was much, much worse. Q held his breath all the way from the 30th to the 16th, where the security guard got off again to continue his regurlarly scheduled rounds.

James jumped back down and helped Q after. The man was still shaking.

'Remind me never to go into the field again,' he stuttered.

'You did fine,' James said, not sure why. By the look Q gave him, he didn't think it had helped.

They readied themselves and James signaled his American co-worker to get the lift to go back down. They glided back into the party as if they had never left. About five minutes later, however, James noted one of the guards in fancy suits eyeing him supiciously. He grabbed two glasses of champagne off a tray and handed one to Q.

'Smile at me,' he instructed and raised his glass.

'What?'

James smiled as sweetly as he could.

'Toast,' he said. Q caught on and mimicked James' action, clinking their glasses and making doe-eyes. James put a hand on the small of Q's back as he led him around the room, introducing themselves like they were a couple, pretending to know everyone. Q didn't say much. He was definitely out of his element. Well, at first. No one said he wasn't a quick study.

Suddenly, he was making up a back-story, giggling and patting James like they couldn't quite keep their hands off each other. The woman he was chatting inanely with seemed very pleased with them, inviting them to Martha's Vinyard. James kept an eye on the guard until they had erased all suspicion.

He should at that point have told Q they had done it. They could leave quietly, mission acomplished. Only, Q was stroking down James' chest while stage-whispering to some woman about men and their annoying habits.

It was his behaviour that soured the sensation, for he wasn't being Q anymore, and James for some reason didn't want him to be as good at this as he was.

'We can go now. Quietly. Make up some excuse,' James whispered. Q turned to him with a smirk. Giving a wink to the lady and taking James by the hand as if he planned to drag him off to the loo for a quick one.

In the car he was on edge, the adrenaline still pumping. James liked to think Q felt a bit like the first time he had become someone else for a mission, but with his luck Q had probably hated every moment of it.

Back in the hotel room, Q paced up and down while James sat down on his bed and removed his shoes.

'That was…' Q began, stopping, then starting up again. James took off his jacket, thowing it over a chair, then his cufflinks.

'That was…' Q said again. He stopped in front of James, staring oddly as James loosened his bowtie. 'Rather good.'

'It has its upsides,' James admitted, smiling a little. Q fidgeted. For the party he had worn the same kind of suit as James, only it looked very strange on him. He looked good, in a billionaire computer genius sort of way, just out of his habitat.

'I mean, I would never do it again,' Q clarified, stil staring.

'Thank God for that,' James muttered, getting his top button undone.

'What now?' James raised an eyebrow, finally meeting Q's gaze dead on, trying not to read too much into that comment. As he stared back, he slowly realised the man might actually be trying to say something more with that comment.

Which was made abundantly clear when he climbed onto James' lap and kissed him. James reciporcated immediately, clutching the man's thin frame to his chest and slowly lying back, then rolling them over.

Q's legs spread easily, and James snatched off those damn annoying glasses, placing them on the bedside table without breaking the kiss.

The bowtie was next while Q was tugging at James' buttons. Neither of them were making much noise, and this worried James a bit. Usually, his partners were more vocal. He broke the kiss and stared down into Q's glassy eyes. Aroused at least.

'You sure?' he asked. He hated asking that. It wasn't his business. 'Just to work off the adrenaline,' he clarified.

'Yes, of course.'

But it wouldn't be just to work off adrenaline. It felt off right from the start. Not the "you'll regret this in the morning"-kind of off, but the kind that made the world sound like you had cotton stuffed in your ears, and you weren't sure if it was because you just had the best orgasm of your life, or you just found something better to listen to.

As with so many things in James' life, however, thinking came secondary to instinct, and right now Q's hand sliding its way down his trousers was telling him all he needed to know. Every snide remark about Q's age or virgin status was quickly erased from his mind. All his buttons had come undone as well, so James shrugged off the shirt. Q pushed at him until he let them roll back over.

Straddling him, Q made quick work of his own jacket and shirt. He wasn't as thin as the big jumpers would suggest, but still smaller than the men James usually had to bed. James sat up, wrapping his arms around his prize as they kissed again, enjoying the feel of bare skin pressed together. He stuffed one hand into that impossible head of hair, feeling a foreign sense of satisfaction - had he been waiting to do that?

Their heavy breathing was still the only noise. Q's hand was down James' pants again, and those long fingers were certainly agile. Once again rolling them over, James decided he would had to make the removal of all clothing top priority. Then Q put a hand on his chest suddenly, and James feared it had all been a great tease.

'Get the light, will you.' James almost made a snide remark, but then found himself, without any explanation, in agreement. The light felt glaring; dark was better.

XXX

It was right after a bad call that it all went to hell in a handbasket. James had made the call, but it had been based primarily on faulty information. Not Q's fault at all of course, and he didn't blame the Quartermaster for a second. Still, he saw Q's guilty look while James was being stitched back together. He was ordered to stay at home and rest for at least two weeks.

He knew he needed time off when Q's presence in his hallway came as a surprise.

He almost slammed the door again, but Q barrelled inside before he had the chance.

'Before you go off on your hard-man "I don't need your sympathy"-speech, I'm here to make sure you don't drink yourself to death. I consider it a duty to my country, not to you.'

James slowly closed the door and turned to face Q, who was now standing in the middle of his flat looking very out of place. He was still in his raincoat, with his signature sweater-vest and general rumpledness.

James' flat, by comparison, was out of a catalogue of modern minimalism. Impersonal not for any aesthetic reason, but for the simple fact that he never had the time. The kitchen and living room was one big space with floor to ceiling windows framing the city in her night time beauty. It wasn't big - he didn't need too much space to stare at - but it was impressive.

Since he wasn't feeling up to physically throwing Q out, he walked as normally as he could to the kitchen counter.

'I suppose you want some tea while you watch over me?' he asked, putting the kettle on.

'You actually know how to make tea,' Q quipped, from right behind him. James turned slowly.

'One of my many talents,' he sighed. Q seemed to hesitate, then reach out, but James grabbed his wrist before he could touch his face.

'Don't,' he said. Q's stare was level. It had been five weeks and two days since New York, in the dark hotel room, his hand roaming all over that soft arse-

'Why? Because it would be breaking some rule?' Q quirked an eyebrow, leaning in without trying to pull his hand free. He kissed James, just a slow peck on the lips, then another, lingering one. James almost let his eyes slide close, before he pushed him away.

'I can't. I can give you whatever reason you want. I'm too old, you're too young. Doesn't matter.'

'Please,' Q scoffed, leaning in, persistent. 'Don't tell me you don't still want me.' James grabbed Q's other wrist.

'I don't want you,' he said, feeling a little unhinged. Before he could stop himself he told the truth. 'I need you.' Q stilled completely. 'I need you at HQ, letting me do my job, and if you're compromised-'

'Too late for that,' Q murmured, glancing away. James let go.

'What?'

'You think me being emotionally compromised will impede my ability to do my job, but it doesn't. Caring about you makes me better, faster. I'm not the one calling the shots, sending you out there. I just make sure you get what you need, and I'm the best at that, no matter what. And before you accuse me of anything, I don't want anything from you I know you can't give.'

James shook his head. This was ridiculous. He _was_ too old, and Q was _far_ too young, though he didn't have spots. James had been close enough to inspect that for himself.

And as for caring, and asking for things: Q was probably the only person in the world James knew was smart enough to mean what he said. Whatever he meant what he said "caring" it wasn't demanding, like other people usually meant. James didn't do well with personal demands.

Q was close enough to smell, and he was slightly taller due to James leaning against the counter, but they weren't touching. James wanted to, badly. Usually when he had that feeling, he gave into it.

So, when Q angled his head to steal another kiss, James decided to worry about the consequences later. He grabbed that silly head of hair and kissed him hard. He thought maybe it would be hard enough for Q to tell him to fuck off.

He spun them around and lifted Q up on the counter - which was a bad idea as it made his side feel like he had been stabbed again. He winced and Q broke the kiss.

'Idiot,' he whispered, and kissed him slower, gentler. James really didn't want that, but he couldn't seem to find the strength to resist.

When they finally made it to the bedroom, he didn't turn on the lights. The shine from the city was more than enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: I've gone back and fixed up the first chapter a little. Just a few more details here and there. Hope you enjoy this despite the fact that, as usual, the story is ballooning out of control already.

-:-

There was something cooking. For a terrifying moment Q thought he had slept alone at home, and that his mother had snuck in to make breakfast for him. He kept changing the locks, but he had gotten his passion for "breaking in" from her.

The bedroom he was lying in, however, was not reminiscent of his own. It was smallish and simple, with white sheets and grey walls. One wall to his right was made entirely of a huge window overlooking the city. There was one bedside table with a digital clock on it, and two doors. Nothing else.

He went into the bathroom and was considering taking a shower when he spotted the bathrobe. Grabbing it, he went in search of the curious smells instead.

Bond - perhaps James was more appropriate now - was sat at the round kitchen table placed close to the windows for maximum morning contemplation. It was set for two, and there was... French toast, along with everything else needed for a late Sunday breakfast.

James was drinking tea and reading the paper, though his eyes glanced up when Q appeared. Such a picture of domenticity caught Q off guard. He approached cautiously, lest the mirage disappear.

'You made breakfast,' he said, and regretted it immediately. Bond raised an eyebrow at him and slowly folded his paper aside.

'I know how to feed myself. Breakfast isn't exactly a four-course meal. Besides, it's Sunday.' Q didn't think Bond knew what a Sunday was. 'Are you going to sit?'

Q did as asked, and was immediately presented with the sight of James pouring him tea. They hadn't gotten that far last night, but now his talent was proven. It was perfectly decent tea.

'You're wearing my robe,' James pointed out cryptically.

'A defence measure,' Q admitted freely, helping himself to his strange meal. 'In case you were thinking of throwing me out.'

'I could always just rip it off you,' James murmured.

'I'd like to see you try,' Q said, and he meant it. He took a bite and was surprised to find it delicious. James went back to the paper while Q ate. After a few minutes of silence Q couldn't take it anymore.

'Have you done this often?' he asked.

'Done what? Eaten breakfast?' Q gave him a look and James relented.

'No,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'I have never made breakfast for anyone in this flat.'

'But you have before?' James stuffed his face back into the paper, but Q caught his answer anyway.

'No.' It shouldn't warm him, but of course it did. Bond seemed unafffected by the conversation, but Q knew better. He always knew better, which was why James had become so damn irresistable.

'Don't worry, I won't read anything into it.'

'I was hungry and it would be rude to only make something for myself.'

Q decided to let James off the hook and focused on the meal. Once he had eaten his fill, he knew he should get going. It was Sunday, true, but there were always things he needed to get done.

His departure was uneventful. Bond led him to the door and said that he would see him soon, presumably when his stitches came out. Q didn't try anything stupid, like kiss him goodbye, even though he kind of wanted to despite himself.

XXX

Q wasn't his handler on this one, chiefly because it was a low-tech operation. The information was inside a human brain, not a computer, so Q wouldn't be much help. They hadn't spoken since James had come back. He thought about Q being compromised, but it didn't upset him like it should. Why was that? Rule one in the 007 unoffical handbook: don't let people actually care about _you_, the man behind the double 0. Not for his sake, or for theirs, but for the job's.

When the opportunity came to bed her, he took it without question. She let slip the clue he needed and he was off to his next destination. She was a footnote in the case report.

He didn't think about her at all after the fact - he never did - until the day he was back in the office, getting briefed on the next mission, and Q came in to explain something. He seemed utterly normal, with a green jumper this time, which he hadn't changed in at least 24 hours. The hair was a mess, which made him think of bedhair - not good, James.

The Quatermaster didn't behave any differently, and James knew he must have read the raport, so perhaps it wouldn't get complicated. He wouldn't need to explain the rules.

Still, he deliberately took his time to leave the meeting room, and it was clear Q was doing the same. Once everyone was gone, James slowly approached him. Q shut his laptop and looked up. Nothing in his eyes suggested he was upset.

'How have you been?' James asked. He could make polite conversation. Q gave a sly smile.

'You don't have to look so panicked.'

'Panicked?' James' eyebrows rose at that. The little upstart-

'I'm disappointed in you for even thinking it.'

'How do you know what I was thinking?' James asked, leaning in ever-so-slightly. The walls were all glass, so they couldn't do anything obvious.

'I don't,' Q explained calmly. 'I guessed, and you gave yourself away.' James couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth, and Q's smirk wasn't doing him any favours. Damn, he wanted to kiss it off. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but his blood was pumping and his brain was filling with all the different methods he could use to get that jumper off.

'Don't you have things to do?' Q asked. James took the hint and went to leave, but he turned back just as he pulled the door open.

'The last time this happened,' he admitted. 'It made things complicated.'

'Don't you worry your pretty little head about it,' Q said as he breezed past. James watched him practically swagger away and it looked like genuine smugness. With a soft snort and a mental point to Q for this round, James went back to work.

XXX

He closed the door behind him. It was rare he recieved a call to come into M's office. Usually, the mission was just handed to him right before the briefing. This time, however, there wasn't any file in sight.

'Have a seat,' M offered, standing at the side table pouring two rather large whiskys. He handed one to James and the pair sat down. From his demeneour, James could guess something tiring had happened. M sighed.

'I'm not going to drag this out, so here are the facts. Three weeks ago a woman was found dead in her car, still in the garage at her house in Seven Oaks. Suicide from anyone's perspective. A week later a man jumped off his office building in Chicago. Two days ago a man shot himself while hunting in the Norwegian mountains.'

'I take it none of them were really suicides,' James concluded. M nodded, taking a gulp of whisky.

'No one can make the connection except us. Or rather, a few key former members of MI6. These were all ex-agents, Bond. They were all involved in a mission, code name Firefly. Now, they're dropping dead.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'I need you to find the remaining agents who were assigned to the mission.'

'Doesn't MI6 keep tabs on were its agents retire?' James asked.

'Not this time. Firefly was off the record even before it went belly up. It never happened. After a rather hurried extraction the five agents involved were given iron clad new identities. MI6 didn't keep tabs because it was in our best interest to pretend they never existed.' He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a thin file, throwing it in front of Bond. 'That's all we know about the last two alive.'

'You think someone's found them and is sending a message?'

'We're not sure,' M sighed. 'That's not part of your mission. Just find them and bring them in.'

'What was the mission?' James asked. M looked reluctant to discuss it.

'I don't know. It's off the record. The only reason I've been informed is because they need an agent who will work off the record.'

'Who needs me?'

'The people who came up with Firefly in the first place.' M rose, indicating James should do the same, which he did, walking with M towards the door. 'This is one big favour, Bond. I don't much like it, but I need you to trust me. These people need this seen to.'

'Off the record,' James mused, fingering the file. 'Always the most fun,' he quipped as he left.

'007,' M called. 'Report any developments directly to me. No paper trail.'

'Of course, Sir,' Bond nodded goodbye and went home early. He would need to use his private equipment for this one. Off the record - this could be good.

XXX

Off the record was often more fun, but also always more hard work. Bond was never one to shy away from that, however, so he jumped right in. The file contained the names given to the two last surviving members of the team, with photographs. Not that those tidbits of information meant much in this day and age. Far more useful were the profiles of the agents when they worked for MI6. The first trick to catching your prey after all was knowing it. Once he understood these two agents, he would know where to look for them.

He had the whole team's profiles, and together they looked like they could have accomplished anything, but somehow Firefly had misfired. It was frustrating not knowing how or why it had been hushed down. Then again, back then there were probably more missions off the record than on.

Two women and three men. Three dead. That left one man and one woman. James decided to find the woman first. She had been the rookie, so she was in her 40s now.

He called in a few favours along the way, but in the end it all came down to some good old-fashioned deductive reasoning. Even if you decide to run from your old life as far as you can get, people can still work out where you're going if they know the starting point. The world is only so big.

Bond found himself standing outside a picturesque American upper-middle class home. The house was white, three stories with a big lawn, blue door and double garage. The street was wide with big oak trees lining it. Bond wagered they measured the grass.

He watched the house for a few hours, waiting for someone to get home from school or work. According to his findings she had a husband and one 16 year old son. Big house for such a small family. That off the record pay off must have come in handy.

When the sun had gone down and still no sign of the family or his target, Bond decided to make his move. He decided to knock. Hired killers were unlikely to use the front door.

No answer. Bond crouched and picked the lock. As he suspected, no alarm went off when he entered. He had a suspicion that was soon to be confirmed.

He found them in the bedroom. She had laid them out on the bed, like they were sleeping. The father had a shot to the head, the son had probably been done with pills before that. They had been dead at least a day.

He found her in the bathroom, brain splattered on the walls. A regular suburban mom would likely have slit her wrists or shared the pills, but not her. She didn't look anything like her profile photo - several operations had ensured no one could recognise her - but she still had that air of an agent about her.

Bond crouched down in front of her. She was in jeans and a causal lime blouse. She certainly looked the part of normal person, the well-used Walther PPK in her hand notwithstanding. She had put it in her mouth and pulled the trigger, straight back into the skull, no hesitation. The rest of the bathroom remained oddly neat by comparison, with pretty candles by the large tub and a plush red carpet on the floor. Not the place Bond usually discovered murdered agents.

She had known what she was doing, but she hadn't been in her right mind. Someone had pushed her into this, someone had threatened her, or made this all look like the perfect murder-suicide. He had some equipment he could use to test a few things, but with the way it was all laid out, he didn't doubt he'd find exactly the right evidence to sit the scene.

Something in her face made Bond hesitate, but he couldn't put his finger on it. This all felt wrong. Agents committing suicide. It happened all the time, of course, but only with old washed-out men who didn't have families and were halfway gone through drink anyway. These agents had had carreers and families and hobbies.

Who benefitted? If someone wanted to expose Firefly, killing them wasn't the best way to go about it. Bond sighed. Too many questions, not enough theories. He best get out of the house before neighbours started looking, but he had to look through a few things first.

He checked all the logical hiding places, anywhere she might have stashed anything about Firefly. If he had been in her place, he would have kept something, just in case, to prove what had happened, but there was nothing. No hidden safes, no trick drawers and no hidden files on the computer - that he could find. He hesitated again; he didn't want law enforcement to think anything was amiss. In the end he had to take the external hard-drive, just in case. If she had hidden anything, she would want it on something portable.

He was just about to leave when he heard the back door open. Why was the killer coming back? For that matter, why had he not taken the drive himself?

Bond found the boy's bedroom and checked the street outside. Empty as far as he could tell. He hid in the closet, readying his gun. The killer came up the stairs and found the master bedroom first. Bond heard him in the bathroom as well, then a voice, probably on a phone.

'She's dead.' The voice was English, though with so few words Bond couldn't hear exactly where from. 'I'll check the house, but we won't find anything, considering. Anything on your end yet? ... Fine, keep working.' He spoke received pronounciation perfectly.

The man was checking the rooms, so Bond tensed in preparation.

There was a knock at the front door, a long pause, then the knock was repeated. The man disappeared downstairs. Bond followed quickly. He heard the man leave through the back just as a woman called out 'Shelly?' from the front. Bond followed the killer out, but couldn't tell in which direction he had run off. Damn. So the killer - if he was the killer and not some third party - didn't want any civilian casualties, and he valued secrecy above all else. Bond disappeared just as the woman used a spare key to enter. In a few minutes the police would be all over the scene.

Bond returned to his hotel-room and phoned M on a secure line, giving him a full report.

'Find the last one before they do, Bond,' he instructed.

'What about the third party?'

'Not your mission,' M repeated. 'Just bring in the last one before anyone else gets their hands on him.'

'Yes, sir.'

At three am that night, Bond had booked a flight to his next logical destination and was killing time by staring at the external hard-drive. He had checked it over as much as he could, but he knew he wouldn't be satisfied until an expert had a look. Off the record could be a pain sometimes. Still, off the record meant he had a certain amount of leeway.

He phoned Q's private line.

'Hello?'

'It's Bond.'

'What do you need?'

'I need you to look over a hard-drive, completely off the record.'

'Everything leaves a record.'

'This can't.'

'Can you send it securely?'

'I have a friend who owes me one. He can get it to you.'

'Memorise this address.' Bond did so.

'On a scale of zero to ten, how dangerous is this mission?' Q sounded midly interested.

'I don't know yet,' Bond answered truthfully. Q must have heard something was off, though why Bond had revealed that was a mystery. The dead agent kept spinning in his head.

'Well, whatever you need...' Q offered.

'Good.' What he needed... what he needed was someone who didn't necessarily think like an agent. 'If someone wanted something brought to light, why would they kill the only people who could testify and make it look like suicides?'

Q took his time in thinking it over.

'Are you certain the people staging the suicides are the same who want it exposed?'

'No... there might be a third party, but...' Bond rubbed at his face. He was too tired to think straight. He needed sleep and a drink.

'Get some sleep, Bond, you're no good to anyone burnt out.'

'That obvious, is it?'

'No, you'd never let it show,' Q said, his voice softer. 'But I know you.' That made something awaken, but it didn't feel very comfortable.

'Yes, well-'

'Goodnight, James.' Q hung up. Bond stared at the phone for a few moments, wondering if he should be overanalyzing that last part. At least it had been off the record.


	3. Chapter 3

I am not a fan of crime/thriller novels, so I don't know much about writing this sort of thing. I've read all of Dan Brown (for some reason) and the occasional historical crime novel. In light of this, I've started reading Casino Royale! It's not like I imagined, but rather good. Some tidbits of info on Bond's personality might seep in.

Enjoy my massive conspiracy theory!

-:-

Finding the last agent was proving difficult. What little information Bond has received in the file wasn't very useful. So, he backtracked.

The housewife and the manner of her death sat uneasy with him. He knew, perhaps more than any agent out there, what off the record meant. Above all it meant no questions asked except the who and what, but sometimes you needed to ask deeper questions to get the answers that were absolutely necessary.

Although he was no Q recruit, he could manage computers well enough to figure out where she had been prior to her death. He retraced her steps all the way back to a hotel stay, several weeks before the first agent was killed in the woods of Norway. He found she had been taking business trips, but they never coincided with anything work-related - at least not officially.

These weren't random trips just for the sake of getting away from family life. Everything indicated she had adjusted relatively well to her civilian habitat. The hotels were always different, always placed a day's drive away where some semi-interesting conference was being held. He checked the reservations. Always for one. Then he cross-checked the other guests at the time. He had to pretend to be a federal agent to get access easily, but if there was one thing you could rely on Americans for, it was healthy respect for any type of badge.

No other guests popped up, but after careful study, there was one pattern that Bond grasped for. She always got the room by the staircase for easy escape should it be needed, and the room above her, also near the staircase, was always occupied for the same few days. The name was always different, but the first one actually belonged to a real person. Perhaps he had been careless the first time.

Bond followed the trail to a pale blue, one-story house with a yellow front lawn in a depressed neighbourhood about a day's drive from the hotels - and about a two days' drive from the housewife's home. Retirement hadn't gone as well for this agent if the derelict Ford in the driveway, its sad blue matching the ratty house, was any indication. The whole place seemed to scream serial killer making laboratory - except for the windows. The windows had been replaced since the house was built, though it had still been decades since that renovation. They had been replaced with bullet-proof glass. Not as sturdy as the glass made today - it wouldn't withstand today's armour-piercing rounds, but it told Bond the agent had had every intention of settling here. Perhaps it had been a nice neighbourhood once, before the depression.

Wars no longer saved Americans from depression, Bond mused, as he surveyed the lot from across the street in an old black BMW.

He watched the house for a day, but could discern no movement. When dusk fell, he saw lights, however, so there was life inside, it just didn't want to venture out. He got out and approached cautiously, but kept his gun holstered. He didn't want to spook him.

After he knocked, he heard movement, then a male voice. "Who is it?" It was too young for the last agent.

'A friend,' Bond replied. 'I'm looking for an old friend. We used to work together. I think he might need my help.' There was a very long pause.

'He's dead,' the man replied. 'He's gone and everything else too. There's nothing here for you. Please, leave me alone.'

'I will,' Bond promised. 'Can you at least tell me how long ago he died?'

'It's been years. He's been dead for years and years.'

'Well, I'm sorry for that,' Bond replied. 'I thought he was the last one, but I guess everyone is gone now.'

The door was ripped open.

'She's dead?'

The man was younger than Bond, perhaps 32 at the most. He was handsome in a classical way, with high cheekbones, bright blue eyes and dark blond hair that was short and slightly curly. He was much slimmer than Bond, but well-built and about Bond's height. There was an air of school teacher about him, and he wore regular jeans, a white t-shirt and a black knitted cardigan. His eyes screamed innocence, but not ignorance.

'I'm afraid so,' Bond told him. If they had known each other, he had to be the one meeting her at the hotels, but why? He was too young to be the agent- but Bond wasn't slow on the uptake.

'She was your mother,' he said, seeing her in him in the shape of his chin and ears. He also observed dilating eyes, an intake of breath, and stiffening of muscles - he was about to run. Bond put up his hands in a calming manner. 'I'm not here to hurt you in any way. I'm to take you in, for protection.'

'Too late,' the man said. His line of sight had shifted to over Bond's shoulder. Bond reacted immediately, charging the target and getting them indoors, slamming the door behind them. There was a peekhole, which he used to see a van had pulled up across the street. Three men exited the vehicle, two with full armour and automatic weapons, the third in a suit and a handgun. These were agents, FBI, CIA or some of the less legal ones. What the hell was going on?

'I can't go with them,' the man said, the added plea going unsaid.

'What do they want with you?'

'The same as you, I suspect,' he said. He was keeping low and trying to remain calm; he had received training, but not known action. 'Who are you working for?' he demanded.

'Officially, no one, unofficially, there are several high ranking members of British intelligence who would like a chat with you.'

The young man looked from Bond to the door, and the Americans beyond, then back. He hesitated, searching for something in Bond's demaneour. If he was looking for a reason to trust him, Bond wasn't about to discourage him and so stared straight back.

'What do you know about Firefly?' the man asked.

'Nothing,' Bond said.

'Will you promise not to hand me over to anyone before you've heard the whole story?'

'Yes,' he answered without hesitation. He must have conveyed the right amount of sincerity, because the young man bolted for the rear of the house. Bond checked the door one last time - they were approaching the door on full alert - and ran after him. He was in the kitchen, ripping out several items from a shelf before pulling out the back of it. From a secret compartment he pulled out a drive, a gun and a phone. The gun was a Walther P5, which Bond thought was odd, as it had never been standard issue in Britain, though some police forces in the US did issue them.

'Do you know how to use that?'

'I've been to the firing range... a few times.' It would have to do. 'Follow me.' Surprised at his clear-headedness, Bond followed.

There was a hidden basement as well, but while it could buy them time, it was not a defensible position. It looked like a bomb-shelter, the kind made during the 1950s, but the back wall was fake as well. If only all targets came with their own escape routes...

'Your father-'

'He wasn't my father,' the man corrected as they both pushed the heavy brick wall-turned-door open.

'Your guardian was very thorough,' Bond commented. The passageway went into the darkness, so Bond grabbed a torch and batteries from the supply shelved filled with canned food and essentials. 'Where does this come out?' he asked as he loaded the torch and switched it on.

'At the edge of the park, about three houses over.' They closed the door behind them and then moved quickly.

The park was an ordinary dog park with a playground at one edge. There weren't many people around at this time of night - all the more reason for them to get the hell out of there before the attracted attention. Bond took the lead this time, sprinting across the street to a car that looked old enough to be a quick fix.

The young man didn't say a word as Bond broke into the vehicle and hotwired it. Bond kept a regular speed, keeping a look-out for tails, but they appeared to have made a clean escape.

'Where are you taking me?' the man finally asked. Bond glanced at him. He was gripping the Walther rather tightly. Bond's own was back in its holster.

'Somewhere where we can talk without interruption.' This had the desired effect of calming the young man. 'But it might be a long drive. I want to get across the state line. Make it harder for them to throw the police at us.'

'That'll take all night,' the man remarked.

'If we're not stopped. If I'm right they've told the local police we're fugitives.'

'Shit,' the man sighed. He opened the glove compartment and put the gun away, slamming it shut. He stared out the window for a good hour.

Bond didn't go across the state line after all - the agents, whoever they worked for, had been too quick. He stopped at a motel. As long as the agents hadn't seen their car, they should be safe. He made sure the clerk didn't see who else was checking in, and made it seem like he was with his mistress - putting on a fake American accent.

The young man didn't take his gun with him, but Bond wasn't certain if that was due to incompetence or a too trusting nature. Either way, he was surprised to find he wasn't annoyed by this fact. He felt... bad for the lad. It was clear the adrenaline was wearing off: his relatively broad shoulders had shrunk during the last half-hour, and he kept wringing his hands.

The motel room was painted mauve, and filled with a scattering of cliché, mouldy furniture and a bed Bond wouldn't let his worst enemy sleep in for fear he'd catch something that would kill him before they managed the interrogation. They both wisely chose to sit at the small round table in the corner. Bond switched on the television, hoping there might be some late half-pornographic film on to let the neighbours have an earful. No such luck, so he left it on FOX.

Sitting across from the lad, Bond finally had the time to appreciate how handsome he really was. He didn't belong down here, that was for sure. His manners screamed English sensibilities, and his accent was far too East Cost posh for the setting Bond had found him in. He was a misplaced person, one whose genes had outshone his nursery.

He was wringing his hands, his long fingers occasionally flicking up to tap at the table. His vision wasn't in the room - he was ordering his thoughts and figuring out how to tell the story.

'So,' Bond prompted.

'Why did we stop here?'

'When we stopped at the petrol station I checked the local news.' He gestured to the TV. 'You can too, if you like, but you won't. Like it, I mean.'

'Fuck,' the man swore, slowly placing his forehead on the table. 'It's all happening.'

'What is?'

'They want me dead.'

'Who? And why?'

'Everyone,' he sighed into the table. 'Everyone important, everywhere. There's nowhere to go.'

'Tell me.' The man finally peeled himself off the table and stared at Bond, who would much rather he lad be angry at the situation than resigned. He just needed to know which button to push.

'Tell me who you are first.' Bond was well used to a little exchange now and then, and with this sort of layperson, he felt confident enough he could be honest, to a point.

'My name is Bond, James Bond. I am a 00 agent, do you know what that is?' The young man nodded. 'I was asked, off the record by my superior to fetch the surviving agents in. You seem to be the closest thing to that, so here I am.'

'But who are you?'

'If you know as much about this game as you appear to,' Bond commented. 'Then you know the answer to that question.'

'But you haven't called it in,' the man argued. 'You want to know the truth. You care... you care that you're doing the right thing.' There was such hope in the lad's eyes, so Bond decided he would rather not crush it.

'Yes. I want to know. Some things about this don't add up, and I do not like being used for purposes I don't agree with. The job is one thing, off the record is another.' The man nodded, mostly to himself, his chest expanding as he took a fortifying breath. He was ready.

'What do you know about Firefly?'

'Like I said, nothing.'

'Really nothing?'

'I know it was an off the record operation by British Intelligence. It never happened,' Bond sighed. 'Why don't we start with your name?'

'Oh, it's Charles, or Charlie, though I prefer Charles. Charles Fitzgerald.' The name from the first hotel meeting. Also the last name of the man's guardian.

'And that's your real name?'

'It's the only one I have.' He sounded apologetic.

'Well then, Charles. Why don't you tell me what you're involved in.'

'I'm not involved,' Charles said. 'I'm all that's left.'

'Left of what?' Bond was getting impatient.

'Of Firefly.' Charles took a deep breath. 'Firefly was... an unofficial operation to infiltrate governments as deeply and as high up as possible. American, Soviet... British. The agents' original identities were erased.'

'What was their mission? Where they just information channels? Why did MI6 want to infiltrate its own government?'

'Not MI6,' Charles shook his head. 'Members of MI6. There's a big difference when things are off the record.'

'But why?'

'Their original identities were erased,' he repeated. 'Their new lives were one of Soviet operatives - or American in the case of the Moscow stationed agent.'

'Wait-' Bond didn't know what he had been about to say. The look in Charles' face told him he was waiting for some outburst. A cry of liar, perhaps? When nothing happened, Charles tentatively continued.

'When the signal was heard, the operatives were to be captured. They were all instructed to make a deliberate mistake.'

'And when they finally cracked under interrogation,' Bond put the pieces together. Charles nodded.

'After weeks of torture,' he whispered.

'They would confess to being Soviet spies.'

'Which the Soviets would deny, of course.'

'But...?'

'But they would have proof.'

'How?'

'Because it wasn't just members of MI6 who planned Firefly.'

Members of MI6. High-ranking, now retired or deceased members of British Intelligence, conspiring with other high-ranking members of other intelligence organizations, now mostly retired or dead. But maybe not all of them. Maybe there were some left, some old dogs sitting behind their massive desks, still drinking their scotch before five o'clock and imagining they still ruled the world. Perhaps they reminisced about the time they held the possibility of World War III in their hands.

'Then the Cold War ended,' Bond finished.

'The agents were told to withdraw,' Charles said. 'Trained and known only to each other - that was their guarantee against elimination. That and proof, though their patriotic sense of duty kept them all happily silent.'

'Why now?'

Charles closed his eyes.

'You?'

'It's my fault,' he whispered. 'I had to know.'

'You contacted your mother. Someone assumed you were conspiring to blow the whistle after all these years. Who would mind now, after all? It could have been a great book deal. Maybe even a film.'

'Then they all started dropping dead. And now.' Charled put a hand to his face, but he didn't cry - out loud at least, which Bond was grateful for. The chap had lost a mother he had barely gotten to know. Guilt was a variable Bond had always had trouble handling. He understood it when he felt it himself, and could take steps to rectify it, but with this sort of thing - the lad had no way of avenging the grievance.

'Do you have proof?'

'Aside from my DNA?' the lad sniffed.

'Your DNA?'

'My father's DNA,' he said, the curl of a bitter smile marring his face. He met Bond's eyes. 'The DNA of the 40th President of the United States.'

'That- that would be proof of something.'


	4. Chapter 4

To all the readers: if this is the first story you've read by me you may have been unprepared for my tendency to hide away for a long time while I figure out a story that originally was just suppose to be a one shot. I'm sorry. Every time a story gets out of my control, I have to go into hermit mode and start figuring out where it's going. I hope I have done that now, so updates will be coming more frequently.

I sincerely hope you continue reading, and that you enjoy what I've come up with.

ps: yes, Charles looks like Tom Hiddleston in my mind.

-:-

Chapter 4

Bond kept an eye on the news, but whoever was chasing them didn't want too much of a fuss made. Sure, they could make it more difficult for Bond to move around, but it would effect them too.

Charles was fairly close to a nervous wreck. The adrenaline had worn off long ago, and all that was left was a young man with some target practice, but no field experience. He had been bred on stories, but had probably never expected them to come true. Or maybe he had, Bond was holding off final judgement for some reason. He had taking a liking to him.

Charles was ordered to stay in the motel room until Bond decided their next course of action. The whole operation felt wrong, and not just the "off the record" wrong he had been expecting. Just who wanted who dead in this game, and which parties were involved? The Americans had to have a hand in it, considering how easily it they located them. What about the Russian? But surely they would want one of the agents alive to blow the whole thing up in Britain's face.

Bond knew how to play the game, but this time he felt certain the teams were all wrong. He needed that hard drive ransacked properly.

He had met with his contact at the local diner and delivered the package without incident, no questions asked. That had been four days ago. Charles was getting itchy, perhaps more annoyed with the fact that Bond seemed perfectly content to wait than anything else.

'Any news?' he pleaded that evening when Bond came back with food. He had donned American apparel to blend in and to match his fake accent. He now wore deliberately faded jeans, too lose fitting for his tastes, a t-shirt with some old rock band on it, and a leather jacket, the cheap kind. He'd bought Charles more cardigans as well, since it would show on his face if he wore something he was uncomfortable in.

'If there were I'd tell you straight off,' Bond said, placing the take-away on the table. Charles was lying in bed, watching godawful television. He sighed, clicked it off and threw the remote onto the other bed.

'I'm going insane,' he lamented.

'You'll survive.' Bond sat down and started eating. Charles sulked for a few more seconds before resignedly coming to eat. He perked up after getting some food in him. He even apologised for his earlier moroseness. Bond shook his head.

'Forget it,' he said, then added. 'I know this can't be easy, but we can't do anything until we know exactly what cards we hold, and what's at stake.'

'Well, I'm pretty sure my life is at stake,' Charles commented. Bond let the silence simmer for a few moments as he considered. He didn't usually share information unprompted, but perhaps Charles had some right to be informed.

'I found a hard drive at your mother's house,' he said, causing Charles to sit up straight. He didn't say anything, not even to accuse Bond of stealing or misleading him, which made it easier to share the rest. 'A friend, who I trust completely, is searching it for information. We need to know who wants you dead, and why this has all been surfacing now.'

'Then our goals allign completely,' Charles said, subdued, perhaps wondering what would happen if their goals diverged. They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Bond checked with his contact at the predetermined time. He used the phone in the reception. The man who answered wasn't who he expected, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome.

'Bond?'

'Leiter. What's happened?'

'The contact you sent to London is dead.' Bond resisted the urge to curse. 'I don't want to know what you're involved in, Bond. This is too far off the books, even for me.'

'But you're still going to help me.'

A sigh. 'A friend of yours made it back across the pond with something you need to see. I'm acting as middle-man.'

'I'm being hunted right now, very persistently.'

'Get across the state line and call me again. Get to a big city.' Bond hung up and went back to the room. Charles was like a hungry puppy, though he tried to hide it. Bond let him off the hook.

'Pack up, we're leaving.' Charles let out such a sigh of relief Bond's mouth curled. They quickly got in their car, drove it to the nearest town, switched, but not illegally. Bond had cash reserves enough to buy a beat-up old cadillac. With it they crossed into Georgia without any suspicious chatter on the radio. About two hours north, cruising at a pensioner's pace, they reached Albany. Bond hadn't felt this far off the grid since that mission in Tokyo had gone sour.

Charles had bcome invigorated by being outside, but Bond couldn't tell if his jittery disposition was natural or due to nerves.

They checked into a hotel close to the centre, then Bond made another call. Leiter decided the exchange would take place at a park. Bond hesitated before he asked.

'Felix… do you know-'

'I don't, James,' he cut in. 'These are old shadows, from before either of our times.'

'Give me your professional opinion.'

'There are too many parties involved, I know that much. Find out what each of them want. Then decide which side is right.'

The "easier said than done," was left unsaid.

When they got to the park, it was bright and full of happy people.

'Get behind the wheel,' Bond told Charles as he got out.

'What?'

'Keep watch and if I signal, drive round the corner to the south entrance. We might need to make a quick getaway. If something happens and we don't make it, drive to the rendevous point, wait two days and then call the number I gave you.' Realising his role was more than just sitting on the sidelines, Charles slid over to the driver's seat. Bond crossed the street to the park.

He had brought a paper and a packet of cigarettes. He picked a bench and waited, but didn't bother to smoke. Leiter showed himself not five minutes later, alone. He sat down with his own paper.

'Well?' Bond prompted when nothing dramatic happened.

'One of us is being followed.'

'Where?' Bond's muscled tensed. He had been so careful. Leiter was good as well, they should be clean.

'I don't think they are from our camp.'

'It was the Americans who found us in Florida.'

'Did you get that confirmed?'

'It doesn't matter,' Bond dismissed. 'We'll go our separate ways until we can get them off us.'

'I can't come with you. I will give you his location-'

'Felix-'

'No, this isn't just about an operation gone to hell in a handbasket. This is about ego,' Felix hissed. 'These are old relics securing their legacies. I can't be involved anymore.'

'This meeting makes you involved. You've been followed. Are you sure it's not by your own?'

'I just told you-'

'Leiter, if you just let me explain what I know-'

'Not another word, Bond.' Leiter got up abruptly. He glared down at Bond. Big mistake. Whoever was watching them - CIA, KGB, MI6 or some blend of the three - took the shot. Maybe it was a split-second decision that the higher-ups would later be angry about. Maybe the man behind the scope just got jumpy. The thought gave little comfort. Bond caught Leiter as he stumbled. The shot was silent, and the rest of the park continued on with their day, only a couple bypassers glanced at the pair oddly as they stumbled past towards the south entrance.

Felix had been hit in the throat. He was trying to stop the bloodflow, but with his jugular hit he wasn't going to make it. By the time Bond had slung him into the backseat he was covered in red.

'Shit!' Charles exclaimed when he saw them. Bond got in the passenger seat and Charles didn't hesitate, his foot hitting the floor.

Bond twisted round so he could help Felix stem the flow, but he was pale as death already. He couldn't speak, but Bond realised he was trying to hand him something. He reached into his pocket - Bond could hear loose change rattle - and reached up to him with a bloody hand.

Bond took the offering just as Felix closed his eyes and went limp. It was a coin. Frowning, Bond wiped away the blood to try see what kind. But he knew from the size and weight what it was long before he saw the head of George Washington, and his own blood ran cold.

A Quarter.

'Charles,' Bond barked, turning back in his seat. 'We need to turn around.'

'What?!' Charles shrieked. He was driving fast, but Bond ordered him to slow. He did so, but made no attempt to turn around.

'We need to go back. Make a u-turn.'

'Why!?'

'We left a man behind.'

'We can't turn back! They just killed a man!' Bond cursed and hit the dashboard. Charles jumped, the car wobbled, then things stilled. They were about to get on the freeway. Bond got his phone out. It was a risk, but he couldn't help it. He sent a text. Not their exact location, but scrambled coordinates using a simple but old code. Perhaps old school wasn't the best tactic for this one, but the men out in the field weren't the ones who might know it.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. They abandonned the car in a back alley, Felix laid to rest in the trunk. Undignified, yes, but less likely to draw attention. They took a cab to their final destination for the night.

Their secondary hotel was a chain hotel, built in the gaudy Mall of America style, brick red yet without a single brick in it. It was full of families and golfers, a good way outside the city. Bond had chosen it because it was the last one he would have usually chosen.

The room was sterile and far too pinkish for a civilized person, but Bond ignored the decor in favour of showering and changing clothes. Luckily, only his jacket had taken the worst of the blood, so he had managed to check in without any fuss. Still, a shower was needed.

Charles didn't say anything, which was odd, but Bond didn't want to count his blessings. He left the lad sitting on one of the beds. He would have questions once the adrenaline wore off.

The shower was cold, as he preferred. He held the Quarter in his fist. In his mind he slowly counted every mission he had worked with Felix Leiter. He remembered their first encounter, and every subsequent poker game between them. Eulogising the dead kept this thoughts from the living.

To dress, he had to place the Quarter on the bathroom counter. It hadn't gotten clean, having been clenched too tight. After he was dressed in another pair of jeans and a Walmart bought polo-shirt, he washed it and put it in his pocket.

Charles was exactly as Bond had left him. He watched Bond walk around the room, opening the balcony doors and gazing out over the golf corse.

'What just happened?' he finally asked.

'Two scenarios, both with two branches of possibilities,' Bond murmured, watching fat, old men ruin a beautiful Scottish sport.

'Care to explain?'

'Felix Leiter was a CIA agent,' Bond began. 'He was killed. In scenario one, he was killed by the Russians. Why? Two possibilities. Either they want everyone assosiated with this operation dead in order to save face. If evidence gets out, it will in effect mean Firefly finally succeeded, causing much embarrassement, which the Russian are still a bit sensitive about.

'Or… they killed Felix because they want Firefly to suceeed. They are in fact simply completing their mission. They've captured their own Firefly infiltrators, had them killed, and all that's left is the one agent - or agent's son as the case is - who infiltrated the White House. Her only other identity is that of a Russian spy. A slightly bigger scandal than the last house wife sent home to mother Russia. In either case, from this point it's all a game of politics.'

'How so?'

'Firefly is dead,' Bond shrugged. 'It can't unleash the war it was designed for, but it will no doubt ruin relations for decades to come. That's the sort of thing politicians care about first, generals second.'

'And the other scenario?'

'CIA.'

'But Agent Leiter-…?'

'Again, two branches,' Bond explained. 'Either they too want Firefly to stay buried, and so a trigger happy American started the elimination process. Or, they branded Leiter a traitor, and he was just executed. If someone belives Firefly is still a go-'

'But it's not,' Charles sighed. 'How can- isn't there anyone we can just explain this all to?'

'I need to know what was on your mother's hard drive. We can't make a move before we know all our cards.'

'Where is it?'

'A friend has it.' Bond fingered the Quarter in his pocket. 'We left him behind.'

'How do we find him?'

'We don't.'

'We're going to be waiting again, aren't we?' Charles looked tired, his adrenaline all gone, but the thought of staying cooped up again made him paler still.

'Just two days maximum,' Bond soothed. 'He has two days to get here.'

'And then?'

Bond took the Quarter out of his pocket and flipped it. It came up heads.

'Then we make our move with what we've got.'


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The golf course was empty and peaceful, the darkness making it seem almost natural. Bond disliked it intensely. Too many ways a shadow could sneak up to the very walls of the hotel. Luckily, a lot of people were still awake, so the lights from the dozens of windows facing the 18th green created a buffer.

Bond leaned on the balcony rail, the Quarter placed carefully on the little round table. Charles was inside, watching television, the one thing that seemed to calm him. Bond had taken out his phone three or four times by now. He hadn't called. He should have reported to M ages ago, yet he hesitated. Why? His own gut instincts were confusing him.

It was about ten minutes to eleven when there was a knock on the door. Bond went to answer, signalling Charles to stay well clear. The lad rose, but kept still next to the bed. Through the peek-hole was a familiar mop of hair, and Bond nearly allowed himself to sag with relief. He yanked the door open, grabbed the first fistful of fabric he could reach, and pulled Q inside, shutting the door as forcefully as he could without attracting attention.

'Steady on,' Q exclaimed at the rough treatment. One look from Bond had him swallowing his next words. He cleared his throat. 'Nice to see you too.'

'What the hell are you doing here?' Bond demanded. He really had no patience for this. Q huffed, as if Bond should be grateful!

'I had to come myself,' he explained slowly. 'And Leiter was the only one I could think of to help me. Where is he by the way? I got your text, but I haven't heard from him.'

'He's dead,' Bond informed him, not meaning for it to sound as harsh as it did, but he couldn't tame his temper and his grief at the same time.

'Oh,' Q's eyes dimmed. He glanced around the room for the first time. 'And this is Charles, I take it?'

'Yes, hello,' Charles greeted nervously, glancing back and forth between them, but Bond took no notice of him. 'You're the computer genius? Bond explained you were checking my mother's hard drive.'

'He has explained very thoroughly, I take it?' Q commented, sending Bond a questioning look.

'You shouldn't have come, Q,' Bond had to remind him.

'I realise Leit-'

'Leiter made his choice, and got himself killed,' Bond shot down the guilt before it could manifest itself, and Q was professional enough to let him, straightening his shoulders subconsciously as he pushed it all away. For some reason, Bond hated him for it.

'Q?' Charles cut in. 'Like the quarter?' Bond spun around to the balcony the moment he realised he had left it there. He went and got it, placing it back in his pocket without showing it to anyone.

'Quarter?' Q prompted, watching Bond closely.

'Felix' way of telling me you were here.'

'Ah.'

'Now, tell me why you are here. Charles, you finish watching the show. I need to speak to Q alone.'

'But-'

'We'll fill you in after,' Bond ordered. Charles pouted slightly, but did as he was told. The other two went out on the balcony, both feeling the clammy night against their skin – though Q of course wore a jacket over his cardigan as always. They gazed out over the greenery instead of at each other.

'So, he seemed like a nice sort of fellow,' Q commented.

'The gist of it, Q, if you please.' Bond could feel Q glancing at him, but he was in no mood.

'I'm not sure I can give you the gist in this case. It's a bit more complicated than that. Why don't we sit down.' Reluctantly, Bond sat across from Q, the little round table the only thing separating them. Q took the hard drive out of his jacket pocket and placed it in front of him.

'Firefly,' he began.

'A secret MI6 operation to place fake spies in British, American and Soviet intelligence agencies and governments, so that when exposed the parties affected believed they had been placed by their enemies. One of no doubt many smaller operations designed to escalate the Cold War,' Bond summarised what he knew.

'Spies whose sole mission was to get caught,' Q murmured. 'Or so it appears on the surface.'

'And beneath?'

'Beneath is a web of allegiances even I'm having trouble making heads or tails of,' he sighed. Bond was beginning to get a grip on the situation again – briefings he could do in his sleep. He pretended they were back at the office, not out in the field, but still kept an eye on Charles' laid back form through the floor to ceiling windows.

'Charles' mother,' Q began tentatively, 'had amassed quite a bit of evidence, but most of what I found on the hard drive was simply her telling her story. Although, considering what she does have evidence for-'

'It's not likely she bothered to lie about the rest of it,' Bond finished. Q nodded, only slightly sceptical.

'What I have evidence of is this: key members of MI6 and the KGB were working together to get the US to start world war III.'

Bond had heard his share of mad schemes, plans, and conspiracies to last a life-time, but this one didn't compute in his mind. Q saw it in his face and continued, his speech gaining momentum as he unveiled the paradigm shifting information.

'As far as I've been able to piece it together, Charles' mother was in actual fact a KGB agent. No fake identity necessary. She was stationed here to get to the upper echelons of government and then expose herself, seemingly by accident. She, however, was the only one stationed in America, and the only one whose true identity didn't need changing.'

'The others?'

'Placed by their own governments in the very highest of circles. According to her testimony, one of the agents in Britain was among the Royal family,' Q said this with no small about of distaste.

'And the Soviets?'

'Placed agents with fake backgrounds in key positions within the party.'

'And when they made their deliberate mistake?'

'Revealed to the world as American spies, all of them,' Q sat back in his chair, huffing out a breath at the idea of it all. 'The governments of Britain and Soviet Russia for once united in their hatred of the rising American Superpower.'

'And the real KGB agent in America?'

'Waiting,' Q nodded, 'for tensions to rise. Then, like the straw that broke the camel's back, boom, the Americans have something to get sour over. An agents whispering in the Presidents ear.'

'But someone in the CIA had to have known, to even place her there?' Bond leaned forward as the whole story started coming together. Pieces were dropping in. He was getting a handle on things, his doubts now justified. Q sensed his excitement and leaned forwards to explain.

'No direct evidence,' he admitted, 'but without a doubt someone had to co-sign the loan, so to speak. According to her story, the CIA thought Firefly was as you thought it was a moment ago - A small, but crucial way to raise tensions. The Americans never dreamed their special friends were conspiring with the commies to give the whole thing an extra boost.'

'Bitter imperialists dreaming of the days of Empire,' Bond murmured, marvelling at the damage individuals could do if they were all in just the right positions at the right time.

'My enemy's enemy, and so on,' Q concluded.

'That still begs the question: who started killing the agents?'

'That is a good question,' Q admitted. 'One our Russian friend had little concrete on, I'm afraid. I did a little research of my own, however, once I had the deaths in her files... and from the looks of it they appear to have all died of natural causes – well, natural in the sense that they weren't assassinated.'

'What?' Bond had gone from getting a grip on things, to being back in the mud in two seconds flat. Q's slight smirk wasn't helping. He enjoyed confusing Bond.

'The man shot in the mountains of Norway? A genuine hunting accident. The man who leapt from an apartment building was suicidal. When he heard of the first killing, he probably thought he was next anyway.'

'But Charles' visits to his mother. I was certain that tipped them off and started it all.'

'Then they would have started with her, wouldn't they?' Point to Q, there. 'Charles' visits no doubt led them to her, but the problem is everyone thought the deaths were killings.' Bond closed his eyes briefly at the implications. Everything might have started because of a hunting accident.

'So, who, exactly, is trying to kill who at this point?' Bond asked for clarification. Q shifted in his seat. He was used to getting the data, not getting asked an opinion on it, beyond security questions. He rose to the challenge admirably, Bond thought.

'At this point, this is what I think,' Q said slowly, staring at the hard drive. 'The Americans want it contained. They want evidence of the plot, but only to lord it over in secret to the British. They don't want one of their presidents splashed across headlines world wide in the largest security breach of the century.

'The Russians,' he continued, 'Probably want everyone dead and buried, along with every scrap of evidence. No doubt the old guard thought it rather smart to at least pretend to work with us against the Americans, but today? No one in the party wants that out, ever. Ideological suicide for anyone remotely involved.'

'Not to mention the embarrassment of getting caught red handed,' Bond added. He sighed, wheels spinning in his head. Q watched him silently.

It was all just one big ego trip, just like Felix had pointed out. One very ambitious operation gone sour, and now no one wanted to be left standing with it. These people, with the power to organise something like that, had reputations they would gladly kill for, without a second thought. This was the last great gamble of Cold War politics.

'What are you thinking?' Q asked softly. He was slightly nervous, Bond could tell. Probably still a little nervous about Bond's reaction to putting himself in the field. Bond didn't deny that he would like nothing more than to put Q on the first plane back and tell him to lock himself in his flat until it all blew over. But he was here now, and involved, so Bond wasn't letting him out of his sight.

'One question remains,' Bond said, feeling the weight of it. 'But I'm going to make a report to M first.' He dug out his phone, the one he would only use to contact M directly. Q didn't comment.

It took forever for M to pick up, and when he finally did he sounded winded.

'Bond, where are you? What's happened?'

'The last agent is dead,' Bond reported. 'I've got her hard drive.'

'Have you seen what's on it?' M asked.

'Just her own scribblings of her version of events, and a few official documents. I haven't read them.' Bond didn't even need to lie. He shot a quick look at Q, who had come to the same conclusion. Whatever was going through his mind, he wasn't disagreeing with what Bond was doing.

'And that's all there is?'

'The husband and child were dead as well,' Bond informed him, 'and there was nothing else beside the hard drive.'

'Then destroy it,' M ordered, 'and come home. Job well done, Bond.'

'She's dead,' Bond pointed out, 'that's not exactly what I'd call a good job.'

'Yes, that is a shame, but had she destroyed the evidence sooner she might have lived,' he said apologetically. 'So do it for her, and come home.'

'Yes, sir,' Bond acquiesced. 'Want me to bring you back a souvenir?'

'No, thank you, Bond,' M sighed. 'There isn't anything in America I want.' He hung up. Bond glanced at Charles through the window, one hundred percent convinced M would have ordered him to kill the lad had he known of his existence. Whoever was pulling on M's strings, they weren't to be trifled with.

'What are you going to do?' Q asked.

'Get him as far away as possible,' Bond said. 'I've got enough off the books assets in South America to set him up well enough. You destroy that hard drive permanently, and then we call it a day.'

'That's it?' Q raised an eyebrow. He nodded, glanced at Charles, then scrutinised Bond. 'You'd do all that for someone you've just met?'

'He didn't ask to be born the son of a President,' Bond pointed out. 'One side wants him in a cell, the other dead, and our side would probably be content with either. In the end, I'm sure he would rather be on a beach somewhere, forgetting all of this ever happened.'

'That's...' but whatever teasing comment Q had been going to say died. Instead, he sighed and looked down in his lap, then glanced up through his frightful crow's nest of hair. 'Are you very upset I came all this way to help you?'

'A little,' Bond smirked. 'But seeing you jealous makes up for it.' He got up before Q could protest, leaving him almost gaping. Charles sprung up the moment Bond entered the room.

'What's going on?' he demanded to know. Bond raised an eyebrow at him, but Charles only switched his puppy look to Q.

'There's one more thing I should mention, Bond,' he said. 'But Charles deserves to know as well. I found a letter, to Charles, from his mother.' Charles' face drained of colour.

'I'll need to read it,' Bond said, subdued enough for it to be taken apologetically.

'Where is it?'

'I printed out a copy, and don't worry,' Q added to Bond. 'I erased all my moments so well even I couldn't recover them.'

'Never even questioned it,' Bond quipped. Q handed him the letter, and Bond scanned it quickly, but it contained only platitudes and last wished. He handed it to Charles and went outside to think some more while the lad digested it.

The letter was as follows:

_Dear Son, _

_I want you to know that even though I told you lies when we met, I still cherished every moment I got to spend with you. My death is not on your conscience. It is on myself for daring to believe there was a life after _Firefly_. It is on the Americans who want me to fulfil its goal, and it is on my fellow Russians who now wish to forget the past. _

_ I love you my son. I know you must hate me for what I am, but I will still dare to ask of you one last thing. Do not let them use you in any way. Keep the secret of your birth. Take it to your grave. Forget our meeting. Forget me. _

_ Firefly was never meant to fly. _

_Your loving mother. _

Q came out to the balcony first, probably giving Charles some time to come to grips with it. He couldn't possibly have known his mother was a real Russian spy.

'Did you explain things to him?' Bond asked.

'I wasn't sure what you wanted him to know,' Q admitted. 'So, I just told him about his mother.'

'Good. The less he knows, the safer he'll be.'

'How much are you planning to do to protect this boy?'

'Hardly a boy,' Bond commented, glancing over his shoulder. Charles was seated on the bed, his back to them, his head in his hands. 'He's handled everything remarkably well, considering.'

'The blood of a President runs through his veins,' Q murmured, smiling sadly. Bond felt an itch to touch, just a little. A brush against the back of his hand, maybe, or push of shoulder against shoulder. He didn't of course.

They migrated back inside yet again, to see how Charles was doing. Bond went to him, waiting for him to look up before speaking.

'What do you want to do?' he asked.

'What can I do?' Charles countered.

'I can get you out of the country. Somewhere that doesn't extradite to the US. I have a few contacts that can set you up with a new identity, and cash to keep you going for a while.'

'You'd do that, for me?'

'As far as I'm concerned, this is my mission,' Bond said with a slight half-shrug. Charles breathed out a sigh of relief and nodded.

'Then I accept your help gladly. Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.'

'When do we leave?'

'I have to plan a few things. We'll wait until morning-'

'That might not be a good idea,' Q interrupted. The pair looked over to him. He was on a small iPad-like device. 'I hacked into the hotel security,' he explained. 'They are at the reception.'

'How many?' Bond asked as he strode over to get a good look. Two goons, dressed in suits. Difficult to tell ethnicity from the camera feed. 'How did they find us?'

'They certainly didn't track me,' Q denied. 'I am untraceable.'

'You're not immune to a good old fashioned tail,' Bond argued. He gathered what little belongings they had. Guns, a small bag of supplies and one bag for clothes.

'I am trained in basic counter-espionage,' Q reminded him, but he was working furiously with his gadget to discover the best route out of the hotel. Bond made sure the guns were loaded, and handed one to Charles along with the clothes bag.

'Did you bring a weapon?' he asked Q.

'Yes, Leiter gave me one on arrival.'

'Where are they now?'

'Still arguing with reception.'

'Then we're going.' Bond took point, with Q at the back keeping an eye of security. They hurried to the stairs.

'They're on their way,' Q said. By the second landing he cried, 'one is taking the stairs.' They got off on the first floor, making their way down the hall to the opposite stairwell. 'Wait, I've lost one,' Q said, poking at his screen, his gait slowing.

'No time,' Bond grunted, grabbing Q's jacket sleeve and pulling him along. They jumped down the last staircase to the ground floor and burst into the large reception area. It was very long rectangle, with giant fake columns and huge couches between them. In the middle was a break in the columns, with a wide red carpet going from the round reception desk to the front door.

Bond took in the ruffled receptionist and dismissed him. By the time he'd reached the second column, he could see the front door and the men standing outside it. He stopped, Charles walking into him.

'You there,' the receptionist shouted. 'Hey!' He waved at the door. 'That's them!'

'Shit.' Bond switched direction and broke into a run towards the restaurant. There had to be a back entrance to the place. Just before the double doors he spun around and raised his gun as Charles and Q ran past him.

Two men in grey suits were already pointing their guns at him, as they strode down the main aisle.

They opened fire, causing the receptionist to squeal and duck behind his little island. Bond returned it immediately, backing away through the doors. He was a better shot, or had more luck, because he got one right underneath the chin. The one left standing flinched as the dead man spasmed and fell into his path. Bond backed through the doors and Q was there, sliding what looked like a broken chair leg through the doorhandles.

'Keep going,' Bond ordered.

They ran through the sea of white, round tables, already being followed by the pounding at the doors. The chair leg wouldn't hold for more than a few seconds. Charles was now in front, falling through the kitchen door and almost sliding a counter. They kept going though the labyrinth of countertops and stoves to an emergency exit.

'Wait!' Bond warned, but Charles was pushing the door.

Outside was a large parking area for employees and a loading dock. Apart from the many cars, the place seemed empty. Bond went scanned potential vehicles.

'Damn, I've lost the signal,' Q swore, focused on his gadget.

'This one is open!' Charles cried from down the line. Bond looked up to see him opening the front door of an old Ford, its front rusty and dented. He went over, pushing Charles out of the way and leaning in to look for keys. Glove compartment. Yes.

The exit door burst open, a barrel raised straight at Charles. Bond hugged him just as the gun went off, spinning around so both he and the door of the car were between Charles and the killer. Charles' scream, however, told him the first shot had hit something.

Q was already crawling in the backseat by the time Bond returned fire. He helped Charles in from the other side. Bond waited for the man to empty his clip, rising the second he heard the telltale click. The gunman cursed, but the distance was too great to hear in which language. Bond straightened his arms, meeting the eyes of the gunman, who was far too slow to as he attempted to dive away in panic.

Bond got him in the gut. Not a great shot, but it would keep him down. He got in, started up the engine and screeched out towards the long driveway.

They hadn't gotten back the putting range before a black SUV was swerving onto the road behind them. Bond checked the rearview mirror, both for his pursuers and for the passengers.

'How bad is it?' he asked.

'I can't tell,' Q muttered. His hands were bloody and Charles was heaving breaths like a drowning man. 'I think he was grazed fairly badly.'

Two shots rang over the car. The SUV was right behind them now. They hadn't reached the main road yet, but any second they would pass the gates. Bond swerved, then braked. The SUV came up next to them. Two more shots came through the passenger window, near misses. Yanking the wheel, Bond both put what little weight the Ford had against the SUV. Then he braked again, the tail end of the SUV sending the Ford into a spin, which Bond managed well enough to stop it in the right direction. He didn't stop, however, and put his foot to the floor again.

As for the SUV, driver was shocked by the ram into overcorrecting, only there was nothing to ram back, which sent the car straight into the approaching gatehouse. Made of the same pink-painted concrete, the SUV still went straight through it, leaving the roof on top of the SUV. Bond hoped the hit was hard enough to disorientate the gunmen, but didn't bother to check. He slid the Ford onto the main road and headed as fast as the rusty old heap could get them to the freeway.

There weren't many cars at that time of night, so they would easily spot their pursuers should they catch up. Bond slowed his speed just a little so he could slow his heartbeat.

'How are we doing back there?' he asked.

'He needs stitches, I think,' Q sounded uncertain. Charles was pale. They didn't have time for it, but if they didn't take time the whole mission was a waste. He found a side road, then a dirt road, finally finding a thick enough cluster of trees to park behind.

He got out, leaving the engine on, and opened the back. Charles was clutching his side with the help of Q. Both of them looked more than a little rattled, Q almost as much as Charles. Basic training, Bond thought. He had some very basic supplies with him, which would have to hold for now.

'Q, get the bag,' Bond ordered, kneeling down and prying Charles' fingers away. It was as Q had suspected, just a bad graze that looked worse than it was. Q was happy to have something to do. He followed Bond's orders without a word. Alcohol, one for the wound, two for the patient, one for the Doctor. He did four stitches while Charles whimpered, eyes squeezed shut. Q watched the process, though he was so green Bond was certain he would throw up. He bandaged as best he could with Charles' uncooperative form.

'Help him drink some more,' he told Q when he was finished. He hesitated, then laid a hand on the side of Charles' face, forcing the man to look up at him. 'You did fine, Charles.' The comfort sounded thick on his tongue. He patted the lad in lieu of anything more to say. About to pull away, he was stopped when Charles covered his hand with a bloody one of his own.

'Thank you,' he whispered. Bond nodded, and got back in the car.

He checked up on Q for the rest of the drive. The man kept an eye on Charles, nursing him as best he could. Step by step, the green faded from him, though Bond saw his hands were shaking. His own were steady, but if you looked hard enough, there was a twitch above his left eye that went off every time he checked the mirror.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

Bond had walked the perimeter, scanning the low brush for possible routes towards the motel. He thought it unlikely they would make a stealth approach, the kind with SWAT teams, but he wanted a layout of the land if push came to shove. They had settled for the night. The next step was already being organized. Charles was inside, sleeping off the alcohol.

Bond stood in the car park, gazing back down the interstate they had just come down, wondering how far back their pursuers were.

'Are you staying out here all night?' Q asked. He had forgotten his jacket inside and had to hug himself for warmth, even though the night was far from cold. Bond was still in his American "undercover" attire and longed for a suit.

'No, I'll come inside in a moment,' he promised. Q moved closer, following Bond's gaze.

'What now?' he inquired.

'I get him out of the country.'

'I? Please spare me-'

'You're going home,' Bond dismissed. Q, predictably, stepped in front of him so he had to look down at his furrowed brow. 'Don't argue,' he warned. 'You could have gotten shot, and if nothing else gets me fire, getting MI6's prized nerd killed will.'

'I'm already involved,' Q protested. 'You need me. I can keep our movements hidden.'

'I've managed a long time without you, Q, I can move unseen without any gadgetry, even my exploding pens.'

'What about M?' Q huffed, ignoring the quip. Bond wagered he was seconds away from putting his hands on his hips, if it wasn't for his shivering.

'What about him?'

'You don't think he should be informed at all?' Bond sighed and broke eye contact. How to explain his instinct with this? He had hoped Q had given his blessing by not saying anything during the call, but clearly he wasn't too keen on being on this side of Bond's insubordination.

'It's not that I don't trust M,' Bond explained. 'It's the people who wanted this dealt with. Whoever told M to get this all sorted.'

'But M needs to know, surely?'

Bond frowned and looked Q over. He might be pretending he wanted to continue this adventure of theirs, but when it got right down to it, Q was not, nor would he ever be, a field agent. He might be better at lying than the average citizen, but Bond could sniff out even a psychopath if he needed to. So a nervous and out-of-his-depth IT bloke was hardly a challenge.

'What did you do?' He took a long step forward to get in Q's space. The intimidation didn't work as expected, however. Q closed his eyes, guilt flashing across his face, then he lowered his forehead to rest against Bond's chest. Confused, Bond waited.

'I was by the park when you met with Felix. I saw you run and get into the car. I saw you had a driver. I contacted M – he knows I'm here – and I mentioned it. He knows there's one more person involved. It's nothing concrete-'

'But it's something to go on,' Bond finished. M knew Bond hadn't been telling him everything.

'I didn't realize-'

'You were doing your job,' Bond dismissed. 'Off the record doesn't mean off the grid, so you did your job.' Q had a thing for guilt, it would seem, but Bond didn't have time for it. 'It doesn't matter. He doesn't know anything important. Unless, he saw the drive.'

'No, I finished hacking it crossing the Atlantic. I needed the distraction.'

'Good. He knows you came to help. He knows I'm lying about something, but he also assumes you'll report any discrepancies. Call him and reassure him everything is settled.' Q nodded against his chest.

He reached and forced the lad's head up. It was clear he was more tired than guilty, and Bond calculated Q couldn't have gotten any sleep since his flight across the pond. He knew he should question further about his interactions with M, but it didn't much matter. They were going radio silent until this was dealt with. M would get a summary report when it was done, and do what he wanted with it.

'You need to stay here until I've handled things. Don't go back to England until I've con-'

'I'm coming with you,' Q said stubbornly. He was leaning in, stretching ever-so-slightly – maybe unconsciously, Bond wasn't certain. He closed the gap and tasted Q's lips. They were very dry. He sucked on them, getting some colour back in. Q was almost limp in his arms. He leaned back against their stolen Ford, softening the kiss until it simmered down to a casual peck here and there. Q got his arms around Bond's neck, plastering himself against the warmer body.

'Not here,' Bond whispered when it felt like things might progress a bit too far.

'No, I don't fancy doing it in the back of a Ford like some teenage hoodlum from these parts.'

'Get some sleep,' Bond ordered. 'We leave early.'

'How are we getting out of the country? Mexico?'

'Too long a drive. I was thinking of taking a cruise...'

XXX

The ship gleamed in the sun, almost by design, like a life raft that would carry them to freedom. All they had to do was board it – easier said than done, of course.

Bond left Q and Charles at a café not far from the dock while he picked up their papers. He was using up a massive favour by getting this done in just two days. It couldn't be helped. Leaving Charles to his own fate wasn't an option.

Once they had discarded their weapons – though not Q's gadgets - and bought convincing holiday luggage, Bond presented the pair with their new temporary identities.

'You and Charles will be lovers on holiday.'

'What?' Charles spluttered.

'You're in the spy game now,' Q reminded him. 'Role play is a necessity.'

'What about you?' Charles asked Bond.

'I'll be travelling alone. We won't be in direct contact once we've boarded. Understood?' Bond would keep a keycard to their room, just in case, but that was it. Charles was uneasy with the idea, but he had trusted Bond this far. His wound would heal nicely with a few days out at sea. Once in a foreign country, getting to a non-extradition one would be fairly easy.

Their pursuers were nowhere to be seen, which was almost making Bond paranoid. Hopefully they had walled-up their boarders to the south and dismissed the ports of Florida as an exit strategy – even to Bond, crawling away on a boat full of pensioners seemed a little idiotic.

The Russians were a bit harder to predict, but Bond was positive they weren't being followed, and Q had assured them their purchased could not be traced.

As he left the pair to make his way to the ship on his own, he was glad to be back in a suit more than anything. Just a simple light gray three piece with a barely visible pinstripe, and summer blue tie to bring out the "businessman on a getaway" look. His neck felt instantly more at easy with the heavy double Windsor at his throat. He would find a woman and let it seem as if they were having an affair. A cruise was an excellent place for one – no chance of running into someone unexpected once the passenger list was final.

His suite was paid for with a fake credit card, which would hold just long enough for the three to disembark. Done in dark, royal blue, the place was gaudy to the extreme, but not cheap. American, Bond mused. He left to sit in the top floor bar to watch as the ship was pulled out to sea. He wasn't the only one, and there were plenty of women giving him the eye, though none of them alone. Perhaps best not to start an actual affair lest he have a different kind of pursuer on his heels...

Since Charles was still injured, he had made only the briefest of appearances around the ship the first day. Even with the constant rest before their departure, he was still looking pale by the time Bond found them dining "out", but staying locked away throughout the voyage might raise questions.

The ballroom was at the stern end of the ship, a massive hall stretching up past four stories of the interior, with one massive wall of glass so passengers could watch the long foamy trail. The dining area was over two stories, the second comprising of two long winding balconies on either side, overlooking the main area below. Opposite the glass wall was the entrance, where the balconies met and a wide staircase descended. The whole place seemed to be covered in one never-ending red carpet. Everything else was in that awful golden Roman style, somewhere between a Vegas casino and a Hollywood set-piece.

Bond observed them delicately from the corner of his eye, watching for any signs of distress or tells. Charles was the least comfortable, but nothing too extreme. They could be taken for a gay couple, Bond decided, and tried not to let himself spare a thought to that scenario.

Q was in a fine navy suit, with a thin black tie against a crisp white shirt. He looked very fashionable, and Bond wondered if the tie wasn't black leather. The glasses added a 50ies touch. Charles by contrast was in a classic blue pinstripe with a strange patterned shirt Bond couldn't see from his position, but it looked pink-ish.

As was now routine, after dinner he strolled down to the casino, trying to let his worry fade. He knew he couldn't keep an eye on them constantly. He was in luck this evening, however, as the pair found their way to the roulette table. Q was selling their personae with gusto, and Charles was clearly being swept up in it. He still walked slightly gingerly, but his smile broadened with every spin of the wheel, especially when Q asked him to pick their numbers.

For a moment, as Q's hand landed on Charles' arm, Bond was back in New York that first evening. The realisation that the Q beside him was fake had disgusted him. He could admit to himself that the idea of Q being good at this wasn't appealing. If anything, it was worrisome. With talent came confidence, then arrogance, then a mistake.

Bond kept to the blackjack table long into the night. At about two am a woman approached, leaning her cleavage towards him as she seated herself. A red dress to match red lips and auburn hair. The bodice was tight, with a knee-length skirt made of thin silk in several layers. It told Bond she didn't want people to think she had dressed up too much for a cruise casino, but the dress was expensive and sexual enough to convey elegance and interest.

Bond watched her win twice before smirking without looking at her as he re-stacked his considerable winnings.

'Sorry,' she smiled. 'Have I turned your luck?' American north-east accent. Definitely down here with a partner. Bond debated with himself on whether to risk it.

'I was getting too cocky anyway,' he said, letting his original accent out. It peaked her interest predictably.

'An Englishman,' she murmured, brushing her neck with her hand. 'Are you here on vacation?'

'Mmmm,' he murmured. 'I needed to get away from it all.' He let his gaze rake over her, top to bottom. She turned her head away to pretend she didn't notice, and to hide her satisfaction. 'And yourself?'

'Would you believe it?' she laughed. 'I won a trip.'

'Lucky you.'

The sex was as expected, apart from her departure without staying the night. She probably had a man waiting for her in her cabin. Bond watched the map graphic on the information channel for a while, until there was a soft knock. Hating that he didn't have a gun, he checked the peep-hole.

Q.

Bond dragged him inside at once, 'What are you doing?' he hissed.

'I didn't pass a single person on the way,' Q assured him. 'But I'm almost positive a man was watching us at dinner last night...'

'What did he look like?'

'Average, inconspicuous,' Q said. 'But he could have just been staring...' He glanced at the ruffled bed, then at Bond's body. He was in his boxers. Q stepped close.

'You smell like her.' It wasn't an accusation.

'She smelled nice.'

'So, it was just routine, was it?'

Bond left Q standing by the door. He would not have this conversation in his pants – he would prefer never to have this conversation, but if he had to, he was going to be clothed. He found his under-shirt.

'You should get back to Charles,' he tried as he pulled on trousers.

'Should I fuck him, just so we've covered all the bases?' Q's calm was more distracting than anything he said. Had he been shouting, Bond would be on solid ground. Angry lovers he'd had a life-time's worth of.

This was different.

'Are you angry at me?' Bond asked. The bed parted them, stinking of sex. The sea was silent outside. Bond wondered if he should locate socks, then decided against it.

'No,' Q dismissed. 'And yes,' he spread his arms to show his incomprehension. 'I just can't fathom how you function. I mean, I know how you function. I think I know it better than most. But then-' He started pacing. 'One second you're risking your life for this man you've just met. You seem to like him, even.'

'What does that-'

'Do you like me?' Q stopped short, genuinely curious. Bond shook his head to clear it. 'You did make me breakfast.'

'What?'

'It's a simple enough question.'

'Yes, Q,' Bond sighed. 'I like you.'

'And her, did you like her?'

'The woman?'

'Yes, did you by any chance catch her name?' Bond had had enough. Mocking and insecurities didn't mix. He turned away and started searching for his socks.

'We are off the record, off the grid, off on the boundless sea,' Q continued behind him, though he was getting louder, closer. 'Either our pursuers are on board, in which case they know exactly who we are, or they are not, in which case we need only put on the barest of shows for the staff and passengers to blend in.'

Bond stopped and turned back with a sigh. Q was right in front of him.

'You genuinely think I'm some mad, jilted lover, don't you?' He sounded sad. At any other moment, with any other person, Bond would have said yes.

The problem was that Q, as usual, was making too much sense. Bond had been on absolute autopilot. Without Q in his ear, it hadn't even been a game. He turned and found his socks at last, sitting on the bed to pull them on. His feet were cold.

By the time he was finished Q was in front of him again. He looked up. Q had removed his jacket. He took off his glasses and placed them on the bedside table. He bent, cupping Bond's face and kissing him firmly, a kiss which broke no argument.

It felt like an understanding, and something disturbingly close to guilt twisted inside him. He grabbed Q's tie and pulled him on top, leaning back.

Their kiss became frantic immediately, and Q pulled off Bond's shirt first, then got up to yank his trousers off. Bond scooted back as Q undid his tie, tossing it aside as he knelt on the edge of the bed. With a smirk, he pulled off Bond's socks, then his boxers. Finally, he crawled all the way on top, and Bond grabbed him, kissing him and touching everywhere, but not undressing yet.

Bond let himself be toyed with. Q had an excellent mouth, and it had actually been a while since he had indulged in that act. When he finally got to peel Q's clothes off, they ended up in the chair by the bed, Q in his lap. No waves, which was a shame. As he rocked up and down, kissing Bond on every down-thrust, he seemed to sigh with contentment as he came.

When they were both done, Q whispered:

'That was not off the record.'

'No,' Bond admitted. He opened his eyes. Q kissed him again. He kissed back, wetly.

'Just...' Q sighed. He was being practical, logical, and impossible to argue with, Bond knew. 'Just, tell me when to stop.'

'All right.'

XXX

The loving couple were on the sundeck, Bond knew, but he was in the lounge closest to the bow of the ship, its panoramic windows filled entirely with the horizon. The place was attempting to be in the style of a jazz club, but instead it succeeded only in reminding Bond of a confused bingo hall. He had a whisky on the rocks, and was reading news off an iPad he had bought in the ship's shopping district. Business news mostly, from the Americas.

A man had been following him since breakfast that morning. In a ship environment, however, were people's routines could follow identical patterns, it could be a coincidence. The doubt only lasted until the man took a seat across from Bond.

When Bond put aside his tablet and looked up, the man was watching the sea intently. He was just as Q had said: inconspicuous. Brown hair, square face with a WASP look to him, especially with the brown suit with a black woollen vest underneath and the red tie. He looked like a preacher or a professor.

The eyes betrayed him, as they would to any other agent like Bond. This man wasn't from the CIA or MI6, nor was he a Russian. He was a hired gun. Very professional no doubt, and with a long successful career. Bond suspected he had manage to smuggle a firearm on board.

'I do not care which agency you are from,' the man began. 'You are not on my list, so you are not my concern.' He faced Bond with a friendly smile. 'The man must die before we reach port.'

'To what do I owe this professional courtesy?' Bond sipped his drink.

'It is, as you say, a professional courtesy.' Was there a hint of an accent? French perhaps? 'I was told to spare you specifically. The agent was not to be harmed. On a ship such as this, I have concluded it would be very difficult. Shots could ricochet, you might be pushed overboard.'

'So, you're asking me to back off instead?'

'In a way,' the man shrugged. 'I consider this job a little holiday,' he gestured to their surroundings with a small laugh. 'It would be a shame to spoil it. I would be willing to share some of the reward. And you would be able to stop this nonsense, whatever it is.'

'Do you know who I am?'

'A rogue agent,' the man half-snapped, bored. 'Trust me, I have been called in to complete more missions than your agencies care to admit. And all missions must be completed, must they not?' Bond suspected this man knew exactly who he was. The question to weigh was how well the man had read him.

'I admit this is tiring,' Bond said, glancing away. 'But I owe the boy something,' he insisted.

'Of course,' the man soothed. 'A speedy end to this merry case, no?' Bond shifted in his seat, gulping down the rest of his drink. He slammed the glass down and stood.

'Suite 1426,' he muttered and left.

He found an employee and paid him to deliver a message to the pair, then headed back to his room. About halfway back there, a suspicion lodged itself in his gut. He speeded up, running past his room towards the couple's suite. It had a "do not disturb" sign on the door. In his distraction he started banging on the door until he remembered he had their keycard.

Inside everything was pristine, too pristine, as if someone has just tidied up, except for the bed. The duvet was dragged off, lying across the carpet as if pointing to the bathroom door. To anyone it might appear as someone had tossed it off in their exuberance. Bond lifted it.

Blood. A big strain that stretched out, matching the duvet's trajectory. He followed it to the bathroom, being careful not to tread on the blood.

The body was in the bathtub.

She didn't smell so nice any more.

'Damn it, Q, where are you.' From the look of her she had been stabbed in the back, several times. She was wearing gloves. Bond suspected she had planned to use piano-wire. He closed the shower curtain and left, making sure the sign was in place, hurrying to back to his cabin.

He noted small blood stains along the way. On the psychedelic carpets these ships used, it was hard to spot it you weren't looking. The stains led the way all the way back, another "do not disturb" sign in place already.

Bond checked to see if he had been followed before he entered. There was more blood inside, especially on the bed with the body.

'Bond!' Charles cried. He was sitting by Q, hands red as he kept the wound closed. Q was pale as death. 'Help.'

Bond got on the bed, assessing. Q was conscious, which was good.

'Get the medical kit from my bag,' he ordered, prying Charles' hands off so he could see the damage. The cut was to the side, not deep enough to cut into any organs, thank god. He noticed Q's hands were damaged as well, deep cuts into the palms.

'She mistook you,' Bond realised. He looked to Charles as the lad returned with the kit. 'Are you hurt?'

'Just a blow to the head, but I was just out for a moment,' Charles assured him. 'Q did everything,' he said with awe. 'He killed her.'

'Make sure the door is locked, keep an eye on the corridor,' he ordered. Charles obeyed, only too happy to get away from the blood. Bond began his work, ripping a large hole in Q's shirt. This would leave a scar.

'Is she...' Q whispered.

'Don't,' Bond ordered.

'Dead?'

'Yes, she's dead, but there's another killer. I let him distract me.' Q closed his eyes. 'Hey,' Bond ordered, giving him a soft slap to the cheek. 'Stay with me Q. This is going to hurt, but I want you to stay with me.'

'I'll stay with you,' Q smiled, his eyes opening. 'Sorry I ruined our holiday.'

'We'll take another,' Bond said. Q flinched when the first stitch when through, which was a good sign. Bond wished he had some alcohol instead of just disinfectant.

'Not a cruise,' Q quipped softly. 'Maybe skiing. I'm fond of skiing, though I like the cabins best. Can't imagine you on skies.'

'I'm an excellent skier,' Bond protested. Q's face was screwed up in pain, but he was taking things remarkably well. Bond focused on finishing the job quickly.

'Almost done,' he promised. He used the towels that surrounded Q, though they were already blood-soaked, and mopped away enough so he could see.

'Is he going to be ok?' Charles asked.

'Keep watch, Charles,' Bond reminded him. One more stitch. 'He's going to be fine.' He bandaged him up as best he could. He glanced up. Q was asleep. 'Hey, wake up, Quartermaster.' No response.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: WOW, an update this fast? Yay! I know this story has featured an original character a lot, which is something I tend to avoid. I do try and base the "original" character on bits and pieces of other characters that would suit the story (in this case Jim in War Horse with a bit of an American vibe). When I realised I needed more characters that needed to be more than just goons, I decided to make this a sort-of crossover for the last couple of chapters. This story now features two characters from the tv-series "Spooks" or "MI5" depending on which country you're in. It's a brilliant British espionage show with very interesting and deep characters. I highly recommend it!

-:-

Chapter Seven.

'How is he?' Charles approached.

'Come here, make sure he's breathing,' Bond ordered. He checked the pulse before moving off to let Charles take over. The man looked next to fainting – apparently getting shot was easier than watching someone else die, which was true for a lot of people, Bond had found. 'Don't open the door to anyone. If anyone tries to get in without knocking, hide,' he warned. 'What about Q?' He distantly heard Charles ask as he ran out.

He sprinted back to the other room.

It was undisturbed. He started scanning the carpet, getting down on hands and knees to see better. There, just by the bathroom door: the piano wire. He got some towels from the bathroom, ignoring the dead woman in the bath, wrapped them around his hands, then spun the wire around them again. He got into position so he would be behind the door when it opened.

He didn't have to wait long.

The door opened slowly, the gun coming into view first.

He kicked at it hard – it flew out of the man's hand – and slammed against the door with his body. The killer was slammed between the door and frame, but he pushed himself into the room with a groan, the door slamming shut behind him. Bond leapt, getting his arms over the man's head and the wire close to his neck.

The man got one hand under the wire before it went tight. He struggled, reversing hard into the wall, but Bond kept his head from getting banged. He pulled with all his strength, feeling the wire cutting into the man's hand. The would-be killer yelled out in pain, leaning forward and then slamming his body back again to try and knock Bond off. When that failed, he spun, his strength surprising Bond.

The force of the spin loosened Bond's grip just enough for the man to get hold of one of his arm and duck, pivoting Bond over his shoulder. He let go before Bond hit the floor, however, and Bond rolled away and onto his feet. The man's right hand was a mess, and he held it close to his body as he leapt for the gun. Bond did the same.

Bond was furthest away, and was stopped short by the barrel aimed at his chest. He backed away slowly.

'A poor choice, Mr. Bond,' the man sighed. 'I assume my companion is dead?'

'See for yourself,' Bond gestured towards the bathroom.

'I'll take your word for it,' he snapped. They were at an impasse. Someone was bound to have heard the noise, and if they didn't move now, they would be arrested and kept below deck until they arrived. If he shot Bond, the sound, even with the silencers, could be enough to warrant an investigation, especially if people were already on their way-

The knock on the door made the decision for them.

Bond moved forward as the man stepped aside, taking Bond's position from a moment ago behind the door.

Bond opened the door to find a disgruntled crew member.

'There's been a report on some noise, Sir.'

'Oh, I'm very sorry,' Bond said. 'We got a little excited.'

'Yes, well, if you could please keep it down.'

'It won't happen again. I'm very sorry.' The crew member nodded, relieved to have gotten that task out of the way, and hurried off. As he closed the door, the gun was stabbed into Bond's side.

'Now, Mr. Bond, we will go to wherever your friend is waiting.'

'He's dead too, I'm afraid.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'He died of his wound. She stabbed him in the side- He lost too much blood before I got to him. It's over.'

'Then why this pointless attack?'

'He was my friend,' Bond bit out. The man laughed and jabbed him again.

'Give me a towel.' Bond gave him one he had used for the wire. The man wrapped his hand, then gestured to the door with the gun.

'Go, show me,' he ordered.

They traversed the hallway slower this time, but luckily most passengers were out and about at this time of day. Bond took his time in opening the door. He stepped inside first before the man could protest, but only Q was on the bed. Bond couldn't tell if he was breathing.

'See,' he said as the man entered, closing the door. 'Dead, thanks to your companion.' He sneered at the last word, letting his anger show. The gunman gave him a disdainful glance, as if he could not comprehend Bond's lack of professionalism. He went towards the bed, keeping himself half-facing Bond at all times.

Bond allowed himself half a second to stare at Q, willing his chest to move, but he didn't have the time to dwell on it. Suddenly, the gunman cried out in horrified pain just as he reached the corner of the bed, falling backwards, hopping on one foot. Bond wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but he sprang forward, planting one foot on the bed and jumping off straight into the man, grabbing the gun as they both went down.

The man was still screaming in pain as Bond got the gun facing him. He rose, looking for what was causing his distress. A switch-blade was piecing his ankle. That would do it. Bond almost felt sorry for him, with now only one hand and one foot left.

He looked to the bed and found Charles had been hidden on the far side of the bed, with his head towards the foot, ready to stab at whoever approached. He was shaking visibly.

'I forgot to mention I-I still had the knife,' he stuttered. Bond only nodded. The gunman was still wailing, trying to reach down with his left hand to get it out. He wasn't very good at handling pain, Bond mused. He considered his options.

In the end it was an easy choice. Sacrifice a gunman who might have killed hundreds, or allow him to live and risk exposure and a nice extradition back to the US and the end of this little adventure?

He did it in the bathroom. The silencer still made a good deal of noise, but most people wouldn't recognise a gunshot like that unless it sounded like a film. The assassins each had a bathtub coffin.

Charles didn't look at him when he returned. Instead he was sitting vigil by Q.

'How is he?' Bond asked, bracing himself.

'His pulse is steady, as far as I can tell,' Charles said. 'And he's breathing well enough, I think.'

Bond went over and did the checks himself, and Q was indeed doing as well as could be expected. Bond couldn't hold in the great sigh of relief.

'Now what?' Charles asked timidly.

'First of all, thank you for saving the day, Charles,' Bond told him, waiting until the lad had made eye contact before continuing. 'You saved our lives. That man was going to kill all of us.'

Charles nodded once.

'We get into port the day after tomorrow. As long as we're the first off the ship, we should be on a plane by the time the maids start cleaning. I'm going to check their cabin and make sure no one checks their rooms before then. Stay with Q. Eat something, but no alcohol. I need your clear headed. Understood?'

'Yes, Sir.' Bond ignored the Sir, thinking perhaps Charles needed some discipline to ground himself. He cleaned himself up as best he could, making sure he didn't have any visible blood on him.

In the assassins' room he found another knife, a mobile phone, lots of cash, fake passports, more wire, and a medical kit, but no files or pictures of their target. He double checked and then hung the "Do not disturb" sign on the door. He went back to the suite and went outside on the little balcony to check the phone.

It was a Nokia, with no dialled numbers or messages, but a few apps Bond wasn't familiar with. He really needed Q to take a look at it. He put it away in his breast pocket, breathing in the salty air and allowing himself a moment of pure thought.

Then he went back inside and made sure Charles had eaten something, but he hadn't. He did look less pale, and so did Q. He reminded Charles not to look behind the shower curtain if he used the bathroom, then went and got some dinner at the American diner-styled restaurant. They ate in silence, then later they tried to wake Q to get him to drink.

'What's happened?' he whispered after he had forced down a few mouthfuls of water.

'The assassins are dead,' Charles told him. He was the one doing the nursing. He gently lowered Q's head back to the pillow. 'We just have to get you fit enough to get off the ship, and then we're free.'

'Are those chips I smell?' he asked. Charles chuckled and fed Q one, who then needed more water. Bond watched it all from a chair placed next to the bed.

XXX

For a long time, Q was only aware of the pain in his side. Occasionally, his head would be lifted and he would have to swallow a few mouthfuls of water. Very occasionally, he forced himself to speak. Mostly, however, he just listened to Charles' voice. It was very soothing, for an American, but he found himself listening hard to discover if Bond was in the room.

When he wanted to distract himself, he dreamt of their last encounter. He had obliterated the smell of her from him, and he was rather proud of that fact. Her trying to kill him had seemed a little comical. She had gone for both of them, but mistakenly believed Q had gone out, only for him to return because he had forgotten his jacket.

Such a simple little thing, in the end, that saved them. That, and him stabbing her repeatedly in the back.

He had felt the knife go in with such detail, but not until after the fact. With his line of work, he had often listened to agents killing people, even with things other hand guns. Now he would always know what it felt like, pushing the knife through skin and muscle, again and again. Ridiculously thin, when confronted with a blade.

In his dreams he was both the stabber and the stabbed, but it was so slow, and he tried to will it to stop, to lift his hand, but it just kept pushing inside him, like it would never reach his centre.

'I don't want to go,' a voice said.

'Why?' Bond. Q strained to open his eyes, but he was so tired. How long had he slept?

'How can I? Just sit on an island for the rest of my life, wondering if the next person to knock on my door is going to kill me? I can't live like that. I've decided. I want it all out.'

'You think that will allow you to live your life?' Bond asked. 'You'll be hounded for the rest of your life, and not just by reporters. People will want to kill you for what you represent. Sure, there might only be a few nutters who truly hate you for what your mother did, but all it takes is one, and a good vantage point.'

'But it happened before I was born! And the whole thing never even really happened. Besides, if it's all out, all three countries would be equally scandalized. Won't that- won't that cancel it all out?'

'They will all be scandalized, certainly, but it's not simply about countries any more, but individuals-'

Bond paused, as he considered, but Charles thought he had finished.

'But it's been so long. Aren't they all dead by now?'

'Not all of them, but there may be another option.'

'What?'

'You want assurances, correct? To be able to live in peace.'

'Yes,' Charles sighed.

'Right then. We'll have to get the Foreign Secretary involved.' Q could hear Bond was pacing. "The Home Secretary as well – MI5 could issue you with a new identity, erase your old, and make you a citizen. And for your security, we'll make a deal - so long as you keep in contact with a third party, the information will never be released. If contact is lost, the data is out, including DNA samples. Is that what you want? I guarantee you, it would be a lot easier to just keep going.'

'Yes... but can they do that? Give me a whole new identity? A real one?'

'They do it all the time, that's the easy part.'

'What's the hard?'

'Getting to the right people without anyone killing us along the way.'

'Right...'

'Are you willing to risk it?'

'If it means I won't have to look over my shoulder, then yes.'

'Then I have a few calls to make. Stay with him.'

'Of course.'

Q wondered what daft plan Bond was organizing now. He wouldn't have gone to the trouble of making deals, personally, but then again he could hide himself a lot easier than Charles ever could. He probably wouldn't have lasted very long once he was on his own. No, an official contract was perhaps the better option, if he trusted Bond to get it for him.

He drifted back into the dark.

XXX

They got Q off the ship by pretending he had gotten sick. The crew were all too happy to get him off before he spread any germs they might be liable for. They got on a plane within the hour, and by breakfast the next day, they were in Paris.

Q and Charles kept travelling together, and drove a rental car to the ferry that would take them home. For hours they did not see the agent, until they finally glimpsed him as they disembarked on British soil. They were to drive straight to London, however, and did not make eye contact. Charles was driving, and several times Q thought they might die before they arrived.

Q hated being this weak, and not knowing much about the plan, except for the mobile phone Bond had given him to work with on the plane.

They arrived at a renovated river-side building. Once, it had housed industry, but now it was filled with posh, industrial-styled flats for bachelors. They didn't even know if Bond had arrived. Charles helped him up the stairs to the third floor. They banged on the iron door.

It slid open with a horrible screech.

The man was dark haired and handsome in an unconventional way. He had a rather big nose, with a slight dent from an old fight, and intense blue eyes. He was well-built, like Bond, but his face was thinner. It had the same hardened look most senior agents carried.

'Come in.' His voice was very rough, yet sophisticated, so Q was surprised by the Northern accent. Inside things were Spartan, and reminded Q startlingly of Bond's own flat. Bond was there, thank God, seated on a barstool by the kitchen island.

He got up immediately upon seeing Q, though his face betrayed nothing.

'How is he?' he asked Charles.

'I am fine,' Q snapped, though his bent stance argued differently.

'You can rest here,' the man offered. 'While we deal with things.'

'You are not leaving me behind,' Q told Bond.

'Are you ready, Charles?'

'I am not being left behind!' But no one was listening. Charles nodded, then Bond nodded to the mystery man, and he left, gesturing for Charles to follow him. Q had been about to grab Charles, but suddenly losing his support made him wobbly. Bond was there in a heartbeat, sliding an arm round his waist from his good side.

'Let go,' Q protested.

'You've done your job,' Bond said, 'now let me do mine.'

'There's no trigger that needs pulling,' Q argued. 'Remember that.' There was an odd silence from the usually quick Bond, so Q forced himself to look up into the man's face. It was inscrutable, as usual.

'I hope that after all this you know I'm more than a man with a gun.'

'Of- of course,' Q said, shocked at the suggestion. He hadn't meant his statement to be interpreted thus.

'Good.' Leaving down quick, Bond pressed a chaste kiss to Q's lips, who was feeling far too dizzy for such movements. He was left to find the bedroom on his own, his insides in a knot, not even a audio link with Bond to give assistance. At least he had his laptop. There were ways to observe what was happening without permission...

XXX

'Charles, this is Lucas,' Bond mentioned as they strode to the car in the underground garage. 'He's made the arrangements for your security measurement.'

'Hello,' Charles nodded. He was looking a little nervous. 'Are you with MI6?'

'MI5, but I've worked with 007 before.' Lucas made eye contact briefly as they separated to go to opposite sides of the car. "Worked" was debatable, but Bond trusted him because he had been in a similar situation, and sought help from Bond. This was a return of a favour. Bond pictured Lucas shirtless – he knew every tattoo by heart, a staple of the Russian prison system. They had licked their old wounds together many a night, but that had been years ago.

They drove in silence through the streets of London, Lucas at the wheel.

Bond knew he was nervous. He knew Charles was probably terrified. Even Lucas was uneasy, and he didn't know the half of it.

Whitehall shone brightly in the unseasonable sun. The Foreign Office looked remarkably peaceful, and as Bond stepped out of the car, his instincts were already finished with the whole thing. It was inevitable, and there was no escape, so his nervousness faded.

Fifty armed police sprang from every corner and door. Bond's only check was to glance at Lucas, who had gotten out as well. His eyes told of no betrayal, and Bond knew the man would be honourable enough to admit it at this point. Bond was only sorry to have involved the chap.

Charles looked defeated as the officers swarmed at them. Bond held up his hands and surrendered, and Charles mirrored him.

Bond had messed up before – more than he would admit – but this time felt different. This time, he didn't think he's be able to brush it off and get up again.

They were led in the opposite direction of the Foreign Office, straight into a waiting van, and then driven in silence to MI6. Charles didn't ask any questions, which Bond was thankful for. The last thing he needed was a vocal prisoner by his side.

Even without windows, Bond knew the route to Headquarters. They were taken inside through the back entrance. Bond was surprised when they were taken all the way directly to M's office.

He was standing behind his desk, reading a file. He glanced up when the three of them were brought in. None of them had been handcuffed, which Bond thought slightly arrogant of them.

'Welcome back at last, 007,' M greeted. He frowned at the two on either side of him. 'Now, which one is which?'

'This is Lucas North, Sir,' Bond said. 'MI5.'

'Does Pearce know you're here?' he asked Lucas, surprised, referring to the Head of Lucas' department.

'No, Sir,' Lucas admitted freely. 'I was doing Bond a favour. I'm afraid I've been a bit naïve, Sir.' He gave Bond an annoyed look. M nodded slightly, but was unconvinced.

'What exactly did Bond ask of you?'

'To be a witness, Sir, and not ask questions.'

'A witness?' M looked from one person to the next, ending on Charles. His gaze settled on him with a long pensive breath.

'Sir-'

'Not now, Bond,' M cut him off. 'I think you are well aware of your situation at this point.'

There were three guards escorting them, but they were keeping a safe distance, guns trained on them. No way he could spring into action without getting shot. Besides, that would be counter-productive at this point.

'Sir, allow me to introduce Charles,' Bond spoke quickly. 'The son of-'

'Enough,' M snapped, throwing the file he was holding to the desk. He nodded to the guards. 'What did they have on their persons?'

'A weapon each, Sir,' one guard answered. 'Nothing else.'

'Leave us,' M said as he opened a drawer in his desk. The guards didn't hesitate, and by the time they had closed the door, M had a weapon trained on them – or, more specifically, on Charles.

'Did you really expect this to end with some great revelation, Bond?' he asked, his deep frown making it looked like he had smelled something bad. 'And why would you involve an MI5 agent?'

'I didn't, Sir, he knows nothing.' M shook his head in disappointed, again not convinced. He looked the perfect picture of the disgruntled father figure.

'Sir,' Charles attempted. 'Please, I don't-'

'Spare me,' M said. 'This isn't about you. It's just bad luck, really.' He looked to Bond again. 'Just one question before I have to sort this out.'

'Let me guess, why?'

'Oh, I know why, Bond,' M smiled sadly. 'It's that self-delusion you've always had that you are some sort of righteous man. I knew it the moment I met you. The old M laboured under the same misconception for your whole career. Men like you are useful in some cases, but they always disappoint you in the end.'

'Well, I am happy to have served, Sir,' Bond said with gratitude, causing M to snort softly.

There was a loud bang outside the door, but not a gunshot. Someone was angry.

'Let me through at once,' a voice said, filled with unquestionable authority. 'My agent is being held-' Someone was attempting to argue with him. M put down his gun just as the door burst open and Harry Pearce stormed in, stopping short to take in the scene.

Bond had never met the man, and had not been expecting to meet him at that moment. He looked more like an old English stock-broker than an MI5 agent, but he had been one of the best. Now, he was head of counter-terrorism, and not to be trifled with by anyone in the British government.

'Harry,' M began, but trailed off as Pearce took out a mobile phone. He stabbed at it a few times, then held it up as the sound of the phone dialling a number rang through the room.

A second later and the answering ring could be heard from M's jacket pocket.

To his credit he didn't look shocked or surprised, he merely lifted an eyebrow.

'Is there a reason you are calling me while in my presence?' he asked.

'Is there a reason your number is the only one hidden on an assassin's telephone?' Pearce countered. M went ever-so-slightly stiff, but he was professional enough to not react. 'Is there also a reason one of your employees hacked into MI5 to display some disturbing information about a discontinued MI6 operation on every single screen?'

M's eyes met Bond. He conceded gracefully with a nod. Bond returned it. On the inside he was smirking. He didn't know if he wanted to scold Q or kiss him. Little did he know, Q was thinking the exact same thing about him.


	8. Epilogue

Chapter Eight – Epilogue

Bond entered the flat silently, hoping the occupant was sleeping. Not because he should be resting, but because Bond wanted the pleasure of waking him. He hadn't decided if it was going to be a pleasurable experience for the sleeper, considering the stunt he had pulled. Sure, he had saved the day, but it could have gone very differently, and then it wouldn't have been just Bond in a very small, very secret cell for life.

Unfortunately, what he found in the drawing room was not a sleeping Q, but a grumpy one. Through a hole in the wall to the kitchen, a big round woman with red cheeks, big black curly hair, and a salmon coloured dress was puttering about. When she called out, she had a tiny trace of an Eastern European accent.

'Do you want strawberry or apricot?'

'Neither, Mother, I am not hungry, for the tenth time.' The woman failed to answer, disappearing as she stuck her head into the fridge. It was only then that Q noticed him. The patient blinked several times. He was wearing blue striped pyjamas of all things, a big brown jumper and a duvet over his feet. His hair was even more wild than usual. It couldn't compare to the room, however.

Q's flat looked like it belonged to an English professor – and had suffered a small explosion - as if all Q's organisational skills went into the digital world. Bookshelves lined every available wall. A big red sofa, low coffee table and fireplace were the only other pieces in the room. Books and papers were everywhere, and Q's personal laptop sat on the table, the only evidence of Q's technological dependence.

Bond imagined one of the doors led to a room utterly devoid of anything except computers. Clearly, Q liked to compartmentalise.

'What are you doing here?' Q asked. His mother heard his voice and hurried out of the kitchen. She looked Bond up and down with piercing eyes, then smiled.

'Hello,' she greeted. Bond nodded to her, glancing at Q, who managed to muster up some manners.

'Mother, this is B- James. A colleague.'

'A colleague?' she repeated as she held out her hand, palm down. Bond took it gently, giving it a phantom kiss as she giggling slightly. 'You don't look the type to sit at a desk all day twiddling with knobs.'

'No, I'm afraid I don't have the skill,' Bond smirked.

'A people person, I can tell,' she winked, actually winked at him. Q was looking redder by the second. She glided over to him, bending over his shoulder from behind the sofa and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek, causing Q to flinch.

'I'll leave you with your friend, Chickpea. I need to get some ingredients.' She picked up a large handbag from beside the sofa and went to leave, placing a hand on Bond's arm as she passed him.

'You'll take care of him while I'm gone, won't you.'

'Of course,' Bond reassured her, trying not to smirk so much. 'Mrs...'

'Oh! It's been MISS for many years again now!' she giggled, blowing a kiss to her son before hurrying out. Bond watched her leave so he wouldn't look at Q and start laughing. Eventually, he had to turn back and face him. He looked like a grumpy old cat in a home-made jumper.

There was a long moment of silence, which Bond broke.

'Chickpea?' he asked.

'Forget you ever heard that,' Q muttered. 'What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at Headquarters until they sorted it all out.'

'They have sorted it,' Bond explained. He debated whether to try and sit, but next to Q the sofa was smallish and filled with more books and papers. He settled for standing across from Q and leaning against the fireplace.

'Did you at least bring me something?'

'Sorry, forgot. How are you?'

'I'm fine,' Q grumbled. 'I'm having the stitches out tomorrow, but Mum acts like I've got the flu.'

'Mothers will do that, or so I've heard.'

'Well, you've got to love them, I suppose,' Q mused. He was getting in a better mood now, and smiled up at Bond. 'So, it's all sorted?'

'The inquiry is done. I'm cleared for duty again,' Bond summed up. 'Charles is soon to be a citizen of Australia, though why he picked it is a mystery. They've yet to find a replacement M, however.'

'Not many candidates?'

'M was the only one when the old M died,' Bond shrugged one shoulder. 'No one's come up since then. Pearce suggested me of all people,' he snorted. 'Seeing as I'm the senior double O.'

'God, can you imagine!' Q scoffed. 'You behind a desk. You'd commit suicide before the first week was out.' Bond smiled thinly in agreement. He stepped round the coffee table and sat down on it, his knees on the outside of Q's, so they were very close.

'I would go mental,' he nodded with a sigh. 'I'd have to find some other means of venting my... energy.' Q narrowed his eyes, leaning forward, but not close enough to touch.

'Don't joke, James,' he warned. Bond leaned forward, their faces an inch apart, lips close enough to feel the heat of each other. Shame about the stitches, Bond thought. He'd have to be patient a little while longer. He tilted his head, just for a taste-

'Stop,' Q pulled back. He searched Bond's eyes for something.

'Hey,' Bond frowned. 'I'm sorry. I won't joke.'

'You'd be my boss if you did something that stupid,' Q reminded him.

'Yes, there is that. We'd have to sigh contracts. If anything in our relationship interfered with our performance we could be immediately terminated. There'd be no more flirting at work, which would mean we'd have to schedule more time after work to get it all done.'

'Did you get hit on the head while I was out?'

Bond reached out and grabbed a fistful of that stupid jumper, pulling Q into a kiss. He groaned without restraint, and Q took hold of his head, angling the kiss for deeper penetration. The invalid had to be on the edge of the sofa now. He was moving, then he was in Bond's lap, legs wrapped tight around him.

'Your stitches,' Bond whispered, taking care not to squeeze too hard.

'Dammit,' Q grunted. He fixed Bond with a look. 'You better come back tomorrow.'

'How about Sunday?' His hands were cupping Q's arse. He squeezed.

'Bring something.'

'What?'

'You figure it out.' Q untangled himself gingerly and sat down on the sofa again, covering himself and his situation with the duvet. Bond got up and went into the kitchen, finding the half-finished toast with jam. He made it and brought it out to Q.

'If you call me Chickpea you're a dead man,' Q said through a mouthful. Bond smiled as he left the flat.

XXX

The meeting with Harry Pearce and the Home and Foreign Secretaries had gone on for longer than even Bond had anticipated. They were actually serious about the offer. Mental, the lot of them, Bond grumbled as he left Headquarters. Ignoring the fact that he wasn't exactly a respected figure within the service, he had absolutely no skills at bureaucracy or politics – at least not the boring kind. The Foreign Secretary seemed absolutely tickled at the idea of a non-politician in the role, either because he thought it meant there'd be a breath of fresh air in the department, or that he could more easily control Bond. The latter was far more likely.

Bond drove his standard issue BMW through London. He still hadn't had the heart to attempt to replace the Aston.

Q's flat was central enough, though the building needed renovation. He got out and felt a twinge in his back. He hadn't been training while the inquiry was going on, and he felt the loss. Maybe he should just cut his losses and take the damn job. He could do it until he went insane with boredom at least. Then go out the old fashioned way, with his own Walther. He knew that sounded far too morose for him, and berated himself for being silly.

He rang the doorbell this time and was buzzed in. The door to the flat was open by the time he reached it. Q was on the sofa, watching something on his laptop. He looked much better now, fully clothed in his usual attire with his hair at least patted down.

He looked ridiculously edible, Bond decided. He wasn't wearing a tie, and the open buttons revealed a line of flesh Bond knew he would suck on in a moment.

'You're late,' Q stated, looking him up and down. Bond spared a thought to his attire, a light grey suit, as he preferred, with a simple light blue tie and white shirt. No vest this time, as it would only be a hindrance. He walked over to the fireplace, sticking one hand in his pocket. 'What did you bring? Not chocolates I hope.'

'Far better,' Bond pulled out the USB stick and threw it. Q caught it and inspected it, eyeing Bond shrewdly. 'Everything from the inquiry. I thought you'd want to know.'

He could tell how pleased Q was by the way he pursed his lips slightly and half-shrugged, placing the stick on the laptop as he closed it.

'Acceptable,' he said.

'Next time I'll bring flowers instead,' Bond teased. 'How are you?' He had to ask, so as to know with what force to handle him.

'Perfectly fine,' Q assured him. 'I went to the gym this morning. Nothing too strenuous.' Bond had a hard time imagining the lithe figure at the gym. Something must have shown on his face, for Q narrowed his eyes. Bond smirked and turned around, going to the first door on the left of the fireplace. Inside he lucked out and found a small bedroom with a very comfortable bed, one empty bedside table and a giant poster of a man above the bed Bond wasn't certain he recognised. It was a reprint of an old black-and-white photograph. He looked like one of Q's forebears, in the intellectual sense.

Bond pulled the duvet off, leaving it on the floor, then unbuttoned his jacket and flung it on top.

'How did the meeting go today?' Q asked from behind. Bond turned. Q had removed his cardigan, the skin Bond had claimed even more visible. Bond tugged at his tie as he pulled Q in and went straight for that neck. Q tilted his head to allow access.

Q's hands came to help with the tie, so Bond slid his arms around Q, careful not to press too hard. Q sighed as Bond worked his way up to get a proper kiss.

By the time they broke apart Bond's tie was gone and his shirt was all the way open. He shrugged it off and then pulled off his undershirt, feeling Q's hands roam before it was all the way over his head. He let it slip from his hands, just watching Q for a moment as he explored Bond's chest. It wasn't a very nice chest, when you got right down to it. It had scars and dents from countless jobs. Q's fine hands glided over it with reverence.

'How did it go?' he asked again, though Bond had to shake his mind to remember the question.

'Fine,' he said. He unbuttoned Q's shirt.

'What did they say about M?'

'Nothing new, nothing interesting,' Bond murmured as he pulled it off, perhaps a little roughly. He took Q in his arms, forcing his head up for a kiss. He lifted the smaller man and turned, lowering Q to the bed. He sucked on Q's mouth, getting into every corner, then he got up so he could pull off Q's trousers and pants in one go, getting the socks on the way down.

'They didn't offer it to you officially?' Q asked as he was stripped. Bond studied the naked body as he undid his belt, pushing it all off as fast as he could. He got on the bed, getting between Q's legs as he lowered himself, catching Q's mouth again as he slid their bodies together. Q moaned low, his legs cradling Bond. His skin was so soft, Bond would never tire of him. A thought occurred to him and he looked down to find the scar. It was still fresh, and would remain with Q for the rest of his life. It marred an otherwise perfect canvas.

'I don't mind it,' Q said, causing Bond to turn back. 'Looks more like an appendectomy scar than anything.' It did, sort of. Q fiddled with one of Bond's scars, one just beneath his collarbone on his left. An old knife wound – he barely remembered where he got it. Maybe they should turn off the lights before Q wanted to study every scar – that would take all night.

'Did they offer it?' Q repeated. Bond shook his head to clear it, too caught up in their physical situation. He leaned down and kissed along Q's jaw to his ear, sucking on the lobe. Q sighed, holding Bond tight to him, scraping his nails along his back, lifting goosebumps. Bond slid against him again. 'I am familiar with your techniques, Bond,' Q groaned.

'I'll have to be unpredictable then,' Bond whispered. He slid one hand between them and pressed two fingers into Q's perineum, massaging him. Q arched his neck as pleasure washed over him.

'Stop,' Q gasped. Bond stilled. Q took a moment to compose himself then fixed Bond with a look. 'Just tell me.'

'Yes, they did,' Bond said. 'No, I haven't given them an answer.'

'But you're considering.' Bond sighed, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them Q was waiting. He didn't look like he wanted Bond to decide one way or another. He simply wished to know either way. So, Bond decided.

'Yes, I'm taking it,' he said. Q's expression did not fill with joy or horror. He simply nodded, touched Bond's face and urged him down for a kiss.

'Now,' he said after. 'You can keep going.'


End file.
